


The Golden Honey (Lorgar Heresy 40k)

by Velliacrum



Series: The Lorgar Heresy (Alternate Heresy) [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Adeptus Ministorum | Ecclesiarchy (Warhammer 40.000), Alternate Heresy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Betrayal, Bittersweet, Bloodshed, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Eye of Terror, Gen, God of Chaos, Graphic Violence, Horus Heresy Civil War (Warhammer 40.000), Medhammer, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Transformation, Ultramar, Villain Protagonist, War, plague marines - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velliacrum/pseuds/Velliacrum
Summary: It's been 10,000 years since Lorgar's Great Rebellion upended the galaxy. The Urizonite along with his Brothers Angron, Alpharius, and Perturabo, as well as countless Astartes brought the Rotten Structure of The Emperor's Imperium to its knees, and carved for themselves kingdoms that offered Humanity a new path beyond the Their father's tyranny.But things do not remain in stasis, and the galaxy has shifted in response to their actions. The Imperium is brushing off centuries of Slumber, and forces both new and ancient are eager to claim their place in The Galaxy. Angron returns to the land he once destroyed to see that the Galaxy is changing and the movement he championed with Lorgar, is slowly passing them by.
Relationships: Lotara Sarrin/Angron (WH40k)
Series: The Lorgar Heresy (Alternate Heresy) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1846669
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue: The Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be part of a greater series of stories about the MedHammer 40,000 Universe. I will be trying to weave the differences into the greater, Narrative, but if more people would prefer the "Index Astartes" Encyclopedia Entry style of a lot of other stories I could use that too. If you want to help me write the stories or take over a faction, PM me! I would love help!
> 
> If you want to find out more about this universe. I am filling out an Encyclopedia at 1d4chan.  
> https://1d4chan.org/wiki/MedHammer_40,000  
> For Artwork check out here:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/wammnebu/gallery/73089805/midhammer-40k-fork

Lotara had never been in nature before, and it disgusted her.

There was an all-encompassing foulness to the whole place. It was pervasive but it wasn’t like the putrid filters of the bio waste facilities. Her ship always produced and filtered the same familiar unpleasant odors. This stench... the putrid smell was in competition with itself, the different fauna and flora emitting musks and spores in their bid for air superiority. She heard a melancholic feminine voice wafted towards the center of the garden, 

_ “He is The Beginning, Change is The End, The Split soul will kill his father, and his patron too. He will part the sea of souls.” _

Lortara perhaps should have feared, but to her the situation was so surreal, and outside of her previous realm of familiarity that she would not have known what to be afraid of. Fear after all is a rational response to a potential threat, and nothing here was familiar at all. What could the mind do when faced with something so foreign and removed from its range of perception.

“By the Throneworld, what did Lorgar bring me to?” she softly exclaimed.

Lorgar, The Emperor’s Son, was a strange one, but she had no reason to distrust him, especially in matters regarding the unknown. The answer to The World Eaters’ suffering was here, she was told, and if so she must brave the unknown. She owed it to  _ The Conqueror  _ , to Khårn, To Angron. 

She allowed herself to be drawn towards the center of the swamp, taking in more of the overwhelming sights and smells that made up this place. Such variety in colors and shapes, an explosion of Fibonacci spirals and fractals to be taken in. A haunting soprano sung inside her head, 

_ “Worlds eaten, vengeance repaid in full, an eglet of blood hatches gold.” _

She approached a giant tree in the middle of the marsh with great vines and branches teeming around the tree.  At the edge of her vision , around the tree was what looked to be an Eldar. The knife-eared woman seemed to be the source of the song, and yet her mouth only moved in cackling and tears. 

“Wolves without Packs, Angels without Halos,  _ Cast from The Murder, the Raven becomes a Crow.”  _

The disheveled and unkempt creature performed her madman’s song. What was likely once-regal robes and garments were in ruins. Barely hidden by her matted and disheveled hair was a golden collar, the chain of which stretched to the great tree in the center. The Collar held bound a face of unnatural beauty. Her smooth and exquisite features cushioned the pure crystal tears that laid upon her face. 

The Captain felt drawn to the tree in the center, despite something in the back of her mind warning her against going farther. She had no idea who the beautiful xenos creature was before her, but perhaps she too was lured in by the tree. The lamenting melody of the fallen queen echoed in her mind, her haunting instrument-like voice was tarnished with some sickness inside, but the corruption only served to underscore tragedy, like a master performer playing on a broken instrument.

**“What brings you from the hive, Insect?”** A new voice appeared in her head. 

Lotara flinched from the new voice. It spoke with a strange syrupy ichor. It was though the hairs in her ears became caked with the voice as it sloshed its way into her mind.

“I am no insect, show yourself!” she barked. 

From the corner of her eye, the pitiful chained xenos whimpered - or did it cackle? The trees and swamps bubbled and bobbed. The voice continued, 

**“Insect is no insult, little Larva.** **Your kind sow a seed for new life on death. And a good little insect you are, indeed"**

Lotara searched the bog for the origin of the voice. She spoke with trepidation as her eyes inspected every shadow and foliage. 

“Humans are not insects, I am an agent of The Emperor of Mankind. Insects are the filth I purge from this galaxy: The Mutant and the Xenos.”

At this, The Xenos cackled again. Her dark black hair weaving to a tune only she heard. She sang, 

_ “The Two Thirteens makes one Thirteen, Five. Thirteen is Three, Thirteen is Five Hundred, Five Hundred is Two-Thousand, Two-Thousand is None. How many times does thirteen divide one?”  _

Lotara ignored the canticles of the crazed Eldar woman and gazed at The Tree speaking to her. The Great Tree had no human-like features, but seemed to somehow meet her gaze in recognition. 

**“Insects feed on decay, Insect. You destroy and level cities, unmake bloated peoples and let new life grow on top of their corpses. You organize decay for life to grow. Life is hostile to new life, you know this, and you fight it. My insects and creatures engage with life unwilling to accept its time.”**

“You-” Lortara struggled to phrase the word, falling back on long forgotten superstition. “You are a god?” 

She looked intensely at the tree - what she thought was merely mite-infested bark revealed itself to be an intricate net of symbols and runes she couldn’t hope to understand. Insects, fungus and foliage spread around the tree, colonies and microcivilizations all coalescing into a single organism. 

“A god of death?... Am I dead?” 

The swaying branches and rustling leaves let out a gentle laugh. . Lotara’s  skin tingled with a foreign warmth encroaching on her body. It was unlike the heat produced by the temperature regulators  ship, it was more...organic than that. Pollen and particles tickled the hairs on her neck. The xenos ignored the dialogue between the captain and The Tree, instead muttering to herself. 

_ “A table will be set for devourers, but your children will starve. Food will be presented which you will not eat. But others will eat your fill. The Crows will plague the Gardens, and feast it barren.”  _

The Great Tree continued,

**“I am life, Little Larva, not death. Life without death is exhaustion, death without life is no death at all. All lives in life must be allowed to rest, I protect life, for life must have its cycle. But there are those who exhaust life, force it to burn. Your Queen, he gives death without life, leaving planets barren and lifeless in his wake. Just as he gives life without death.The years your kind steal from life, they burn your body with exhaustion, and leave fledgling lives stillborn. The cells who serve your spirit have not been allowed their restYour body, The ragged vessel that anchors your lifes is not allowed its rightful rest. Each cell and organism cries out to me for their release. New life within your kind is still, you are little more than moving rocks. Life without death and death without life. Yours is a God of Death, Insect.”**

“The Emperor is not a god! There are no gods!” 

Lotara snapped back, though her disciplined response felt foreign to her as it escaped her lips. 

**“No gods,”** it chortled.,

**“Tell me little insect, what is a god? God is act, not being. Your Emperor takes command of your race, and acts as god. But in doing so he is god of death. Your queen knows he is god. He acts as a god of life, and in turns governs over death. His judgement dictates the death of your planets, of your crews, and… of your World Eaters.**

**His life demands that all die.”**

Lotara was taken aback, the environment made her head spin, it was comfortingly nausiating. Hardly the place for a philosophical retort. “What are you speaking of? Cease your riddles and slanders.” 

All the while xenos psaltered on, her words buzzing in Lotara's reeling mind:

_ “One hydra devours another, Heaven and Earth in war. _

_ Malice everywhere. Beasts and Iron awaken.  _

_ Man’s two lights snuffed out.  _

_ A mad son prepares for sanity to die.  _

_ One hydra devours another, Heaven and Earth at war.” _

The forest rumbled and gurgled, and Lotara felt a shift in the putrid air. The bog began to rise around her., Lotara struggled to move. The swamp and mud climbed up her knees and ankles. She was terrified but somehow the mud was comfortingly warm. As though a weary traveller had finally found a resting place. Perhaps she should just lay down and let the mud consume her. 

The xenos woman cackled, sobbed, and cackled again. Laughing and weeping, she then stooped to drink from the mud. Lotara stood with her mouth agape, trying to process the circumstance around her. The bees that had strafed around her finally saw their opening. The swarm blitzed through her body. . Lortara choked, but the bees would not dislodge, nor could she shake the feeling of them inside her. Panicked and gasping for Air, she fell to her knees. The Tree continued unchanging. 

**“I have so much to teach and reveal to you about your Queen, pupae. Your Queen threatens your colony. I will feed you my knowledge to save your colony.”**

The Mud continued to rise, now to her waist, the brown water crawling up her white tunic and Red Handprint. The xenos moved towards her. 

**“I will make you a queen, little larva, but you must escape your cocoon to grow. I can free you, I can help you grow.”**

Lotara, was now up to her shoulders in mud, the towering xenos almost standing on top of her, walking on top of the mud somehow. Choking and gasping for breath, she reached out her hands to the Aeldari woman. 

**“Go back to your Queen. Ask your him about ‘Molech.’ I was there, he was there, your World Eater was there. Your God of Death will reveal his true designs, and when he does, consider the gifts I have to give you.”**

Lotara was sinking, the Xenos grabbed her desperate hands. The Xenos woman smiled as she bent down, her knees gracefully standing on top of the mud. She opened Lotara’s mouth and bending forward as though to kiss her, the xenos vomited. Whatever bile she had drunk was inside Lotara now; she could feel it caking and hardening both outside her skin and inside it. 

The mud was now above her neck, her knees still planted in the mud. Lotara gagged and choked. The last she heard was the Great Tree before sinking in an ocean of peat.

**“Save your colony, little queen.”**

Lotara gasped for air, breathing in the sterile purified air of her ship. She awoke to a sweat-drenched cot in her spartan quarters. Lorgar’s Amulet gathered sweat and chilled her bare flesh. She clasped it with both hands, hoping to normalize the temperature - it didn't. 

She looked around the Captain’s quarters, completely dark save the few emergency lights, and the soft glow of her dataslate. The plainness of her living space made the bottles of Lorgar’s concoction more apparent. The long-since healed scar that went down her face tingled as if it had reopened. She quickly snatched the mystic contraband to hideaway, sweat drenched hands nearly causing the vial to slip. The bottles, book, and other incriminating objects were stuffed away into the incinerator meant for politically sensitive or inconvenient information. Not even thinking of removing the amulet, she put her hands to her right eye, expecting to feel the pus and blood ooze out of an open festering wound. 

The lights came on in her quarters, and she looked at herself in the mirror. The runes Lorgar had instructed her to inscribe around her heart and face had melted and smudged into unrecognizable pools and blurs. Her pale, clammy skin, with visible beads of sweat, and matted hair made her look sickly. However, she suspected, or perhaps hoped, this unflattering sickliness was from the harsh lighting. Other Flag Officers and even those of lesser stations had ornate, if not lavish quarters. She did not, and the cold shadowless lighting that illuminated her living space was the same used in work corridors. The only change she noticed was her scar: once travelling the right side of her face, it had completely vanished. Or at least it could no longer be seen., she could still feel it, and feel as if it was infected. She quickly cleaned herself and prepared for her duties as though nothing had happened, covering the amulet with her tunic. 

Before leaving, she grabbed her dataslate and looked at an encrypted message. It was from one of the Emperor’s other sons, the taciturn “Alpharius.” The message held several files labeled with a simple message. “Sigilite:Autopsy_XII.” She thought of the dream, and the words of the Tree, “Molech.” She had to know, her crew’s life  depended on it. Angron depended on it.


	2. The Primarchs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angron and Lorgar discuss the state of the Galaxy

_ A Century of Centuries later... _

“Surely Cadia will stand??” Angron asked.

“We can no longer hope it will,” replied Lorgar's exhausted shadow.

“Of course, Perturabo insists that his fortress is a mathematically impregnable perfection, and that "The mindless masses of man could not capably conceive to concoct a stratagem sufficient to succeed and subdue my citadel.”

Their brother, polymath and Viceroy to the Prince of Excess, likely said this with the rhythmic cadence that accompanied all of Perturabo's speeches, but the embattled and weary Lorgar repeated each haughty boast like items in a cargo manifest of hubris. He continued to confide in Angron.

“I have my doubts about its capabilities, and after Macharios, even more about its actual purpose. I will not sacrifice the eye for Cadia.”

Angron nodded at this, leaning back in his chair. He shifted the weight towards a contemplative position, with his left arm leaning on the armrest of the golden and marble seat, embossed with defaced Aquilas, skulls, and long forgotten symbols of Ultramar, spoils from a glorious, now ancient victory. The holographic form of  Lorgar continued,

“Our brother’s single-minded pursuit of the perfect fortress could lead to our enemies outflanking us, but I have long since given up the hope to chastise or critique him. You are welcome to confront him about it if you like,”

The runes tattooed on his face creased as Lorgar forced a wry smile,

“After all, no one understands foolish suicidal assaults and seeking death better than you.”

Angron briefly lightened his expression in a simple homage to an old joke. 

“We may be equals now given your current plans, brother. Your proposal for a Black Crusade at this time is madness. Saporin and I still have not recovered our numbers from the raid by the Night Lords or by the previous failed crusade.” 

“Nor have I,”

Lorgar’s projection responded, the grey image cast a dim light in Angron’s quarters, flickering amid The World Eater’s collection of both trophies and carnivorous plants, both gathered from across the galaxy over his many conquests. Standing like a pillar in the center of the room, the champion of chaos broke eye contact with Angron, seemingly staring at The large Catachan death weed sprouting from the helm of a Luna Wolf Sergeant.

“The Black Legion is still heavily undermanned, but I don’t believe we have a choice. I hope that the alliances with Imperium Undivided will augment us, but even if it won’t, we must proceed. We both know that Terra is preparing its own offensive, and now even the Eldar are too. Yvraine tastes blood in the water, and likely sees our weakness as an opportunity to unite the craftworlds.”

Lorgar searchedAngron looking for signs of shock or disagreement, his greenish grey reflection danced on the gold of Angron’s stolen throne, and the blades that dangled from his wrists., Unlike, those Urizenites who met Lorgar’s concerns with derision and protestation, Angron’s collected and patient expression conveyed little suprise or disagreement. Seeing no objections, Lorgar continued to explain his plan.

“Our best hope is to take advantage of the Imperium’s T'au distraction and destroy some of the pylons that contain the Eye. At the very least, to raid some of the wealthier planets of the Imperium. What we can not do is wait and risk the Eye of Terror by depending upon our brother’s crenelated vanity project.” 

Locking eyes with the flickering shadows where Lorgar’s eyes should be, Angron leaned forward.

“Then why drag Imperium Undivided into this? If things are truly this dire, do we really want to entangle ourselves with them? What did you have to promise them in exchange for help?”

Angron placed his elbows on his knees not breaking eye-contact with the Lord of Chaos,

“I'll tell you this right now Lorgar, I won't allow a single one of my World Eaters or Saporin's drones to die for Sotha just because you owe them a favor.” 

“You won’t have to,”

Lorgar said before glancing over to what was likely a computer screen, but from Angron’s perspective Lorgar was inspecting another of his trophies, this one an Omnissiahan axe enveloped with exotic vines with deep purple thorns. The Skull of Mars in the center of the axe was defaced with an eight-pointed star.

“Luther’s little experiment is not sinking - Angron - his ship of state is already underwater. Despite Luther and Ahriman’s insistence that they represented some grand yet untrodden path for humanity. Imperium Undivided has only two pillars that separate it from any other chaos warband. The first is the beacon at Sotha, and the second is the genius of Fabius Bile.  Sotha and the Pharos beacon has long since been lost, and Fabius Bile has vanished without a trace, taking most of his genelabs and expertise with him. If they thought they were something more than that, Ultramar has certainly called their bluff. For all practical purposes, they are vassals of Ultramar, with the worshippers of our brother leading most of the defenses against the Tyranids.”

Lorgar’s tone, perhaps finding some solace in little strategic gains, strengthened.

“That is also why this Black Crusade must happen.”

Scraping some passion from conviction, he continued,

“The forces of Chaos can no longer afford Luther’s Schism. This Crusade will be an opportunity to salvage what's left of Luther’s armies and save them from dying with his foolish ideology.”

Angron nodded, it was prudential judgement, if several centuries too late.

“Is this why you ordered Typhus and his ilk to accompany me in my raids of Macharia.” 

“I hope I am not asking too much of your patience, Angron.” The armored shade spoke empathetically. “Typhus and his Plague Guard can be difficult to stomach, but hopefully you can see that putting aside your rivalry benefits our cause as a whole.”

Angron smiled, and with a contemptuous chuckle replied,

“Rivalry is too strong a word, brother. The only fear I have with that Barbaran outcast is that he will give my ship a Venereal Disease.” 

“Of that there is no doubt, but an irritation is still an irritation. Your sensitivity towards this matter is crucial for my plans, and I am grateful to you. At the very least you and Saporin will be rewarded with Canon fodder.” 

“She will not like this, you know.” Angron interrupted curtly.

“Typhus?” Lorgar asked with barely hidden amusement.

“I would hope the Great Saporin would find it agreeable to view a servant of Nurgle as a  fellow traveller. I’m only asking you to tolerate his presence next to your World Eaters, not invite him on board for dinner.” 

“No one cares about Typhus,” Angron replied flatly,

“You  _ know _ what I am referring to,”

Lorgar’s smile faded and he nodded.

“This Crusade.”

Angron looked past Lorgar’s hologram, through the shadow to a lichen and trophy cover wall. In the center of all of the weapons and foliage was a very out-of-place painting. The large framed canvas was of Saporin and Angron as they once were - a gift from a grateful Perturabo following one of the crusades. Saporin, a woman obsessed with functionality over sentiment insisted it be thrown out. Angron, normally in agreement, secretly kept the painting. 

The resemblance of the two was perfect and extremely detailed, as all things made by Perturabo's hands with Perturabo's memory were. The painting itself seemed to somehow exude emotion, despite the stiff poses of the figures, and the geometric precision of every object. It depicted Angron and Lotara standing under The Great Tree, the woman’s hand, more feminineand soft than the callous officer's ever were, reaching towards Angron's crown, brushing aside the butcher’s nails from his forehead as though the implants could be removed with such a gentle gesture. Embracing her, Angron’s hand was placed against chitinous armor forming on her bare back. Their faces locked in a glance showing a gentle smile neither the suicidal berserker nor the stoic commander ever wore in their miserable brutish lives. 

Angron was a simple man without much taste for art, but his brother’s gift was perhaps the closest he came to understanding. Nothing about this painting was how it happened, but as a whole it spoke to Angron. Caught in a sentiment, he reached back to feel the lichen and vines emerging from his scalp. He thought of the wires that once stood there, feeding pain and barbarism into his skull. Wires and tubes of Archeotech that siphoned humanity out of him, leaving a writhing, shell of wroth: a rabid dog in the shape of a man. Angron's spiritual transformation was no less drastic and complete than Lotara's physical one; and the path to it was much more complicated than her hand sweeping it away. And yet, in a sense, it was that simple. Nothing in the painting was accurate, yet every single aspect was true. He was amazed that someone could somehow sculpt a monument of truth out of such meticulously minute lies. 

Lorgar interrupted his reflection.

“She doesn’t need to like the situation, only recognize its necessity. I understand you are undermanned from the raids, and we both know we are running out of alternatives. This may be our last chance to buy ourselves more time.”

Angron got up methodically from his looted throne, and briefly glanced at the ship console behind him, notifying him of his approach to The Death Conqueror.

“We will see how her mood is after the harvest of new prisoners and food. I will do this brother. But in return, I want you to order Typhus and any others you can spare to accompany me in future raids. The hive needs bodies to feed on, and if Typhus cannot provide them from raids, he can supply them from his own men.”

Lorgar nodded without a word, and the dim grey light went out as Angron prepared to leave his personal craft to board The  _ Terminus Est _ .


	3. The Traveler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angron and His Gladiators return to Nucreria in triumph. They slaughter the Ultramari warriors who come to defend the planet.

The bullets and the prayers brushed past Angron’s face. Both bolter shells and hapless cries were harmless to the great champion, but at least the bullets could nudge the lichen strands and vines that emerged from The Champion’s scalp. Angron merely laughed, reveling in the heat of battle. His two great axes cleaved through fields of infantry as though they were wheat. To the veteran of uncountable wars of 10,000 years, a guardsman was hardly even a human to him anymore, let alone a threat. The Imperium of Man had placed their soldiers here for eternity: banners, uniforms, and warcries change, but little else; a sea of faces, and the war cries, long sense devolved from their original tongues of high gothic, was little more than a garble of unintelligible glottal stops and growls to the ancient warriors. Hardly human to the great gladiator’s consideration, practically part of the wildlife and foliage of the planet, a natural defense like a cactus plant, or the quills of the porcupine, as the wisdom of Father Nurgle had revealed to him. 

Though in the eyes of the soldiers of his foes, Angron and his companions were hardly human themselves. The entire invading army under Angron and Typhus had been remade in the image of Nurgle, Lord of Decay. Angron and his gene-sons, the World Eaters, were adorned with Foliage, and insect hives and bore such blessings from Nurgle proudly. Adding to the cacophony of the battle were their sundering roars as they slaughtered troops by the dozens, and the loud buzzing of Saporin’s Drones: Massive humanoid wasps who collect soldiers, both living and dead. Blessed with the gifts of The Rotfather. 

His companions, the fallen gladiators of the red sands, had been reborn and blossomed as the new warriors of The Poxlord. Oeomanos, long-standing mentor of Lord Angron stood alongside his friend and companion, the heavy bark shield absorbing the lasfire and bolter shells of the grunts as the sword tore through the opponents.

“Equiana,” Angron bellowed ahead of the throng of faltering troops, “any signs of a proper challenge?”

Natal Equiania, once a fellow gladiator on Nuceria, grinned arrogantly far ahead of the other gladiators. Speaking in the ancient, lost dialect of Nuceria, she voiced her disappointment.

“There is nothing here but the fodders. Perhaps Gulliman’s great warriors have abandoned this world.”

Equiana wore the old armor of a Fisherman Gladiator, adorned with the armor of acacia bark and moss. Her rust and vine-covered trident piercing through the flimsy armor of all soldiers foolish enough to approach her. In her offhand, a net of thorny vines ensnared A Handmaiden of Tarasha. The captured sister of battle frantically chanted her prayers to the Divine Mother as the thorns of the net sunk into her flesh. Without even looking at her prize, she continued.

“There are no champions, no great warriors on this planet, only the cultists and sycophants of your brother left to die.”

Turning back, she watched as the Handmaiden’s horror-struck eyes and dancing lips finally ceased to move. She tossed the fallen Sororitas behind her , once again charging into the fray of battle. A massive wasp-like creature collected the body and flew off.

“Another meal for your beloved’s children Angron.” She cackled.

Oeomanus turned to Angron,

“Where are the Champions, Brother? Have the Devourers or the Bluetide claimed the great sons of Gulliman? Is the settlement here not significant? The Ultramarines would surely send out Astartes to defend it.”

Angron laughed at this,

“perhaps they have learned from their gene-father to run away from true warriors,  Oeomanus,”

all the while his chain axes drove into a company of Zouaves, ‘their elegant uniforms tattered and drenched in blood.

“They must be around somewhere, Typhus certainly couldn’t have taken them  on.”

More of Roboute’s female worshippers, with their painted armor and strange headgear emerged. Taking some of the wounded, and rallying troops. Angron laughed again, and charged into the Ancillae, silencing their supplications to The Aurelian.

Far away from the greedy bloodlust of Angron and his gladiators, The Plague Guard advanced slowly. Typhus, the abandoned son of Mortarion, adopted son of Nurgle, would not share in Angron’s foolhardiness. His plague guard, bloated and pox-ridden with the gifts of the Rotfather, would not easily falter, and the filth encrusted warriors of Nurgle absorbed the weapons of the Ultramari warriors. The Konor-produced Galvanic Carbines, which could easily pierce through a Termagant or Blueskin armor, did little to affect the cursed ancient armor of The Plague Guard. And yet, despite this apparent invincibility, Typhus would not order his men to charge. Instead, the Warriors maintained their pace, encased in the air of blight surrounding them. 

Typhus and his guard could be heard counting every bolter shell that was fired, counting the time between swings, and even the power expenditures of their suits, all of this chanted rhythmically by the plague guard, interlaced with pious chants of praise to Nurgle, lord of death and decay. Typhus stood in front of the Plague Guard, his great scythe in hand as he methodically reaped the flesh and souls of the Ultramari militia who were foolish or zealous enough to charge him. Like a metronome, Typhus’ methodical sweeps were like a conductor’s baton to the rhythmic chants of the Plague guard. A putrid ode to decay and resilience and prayers to Father Nurgle:

_ “A pint of Prometheum, I present to you, oh putrid patron of rot. I offer unto you the lives of these servants of the anathema” _

Chanted Lt. Skythos, adding his verse to the numeric cantillations of the Plague guard, his heavy flamer emitting bolts of blue and orange fire onto the zealous Ultramari guard. Typhus acknowledged the chant and continued the refrain 

_ “In gratitude for the gifts granted unto us, and to the great decay of the world.” _

His scythe swayed back and forth through the crowd of charging soldiers, keeping pace for the attacks of The Plague guard. 

The planet upon which Typhus and his men fought was once part of his domains but a few centuries ago. Nucreria, with its proximity to Sotha, was bequeathed to him. The planet fed his legions and tended his devotional gardens before it fell. Typhus had looked upon the planet with indifference and disdain, and now he stood on it as a stranger, the planet now long under Ultramari hands as The once-proud Imperium Undivided buckled and collapsed under attack. 

Typhus and his men had already lost much over these centuries. Callas Typhus, Commodore-Knight of Imperium Undivided was now Typhus The Traveller, an army in exile among the stars. In days past, He, Luther, Ahriman, and Fabius Bile once stood alone amongst men and subject only to the gods. Now, once again, Typhus, without legion or homeland, is taking orders from a primarch. Angron, the brash and death-loving gladiator. A man whom Typhus shares faith in Nurgle, but little else.

Ignatius Grugor, a fellow warrior of The Plague Guard and fighting alongside the  meditating captain, approached Typhus.

“Lord Typhus, Angron and The Lords of The Red Sands are all but out of our sight. Perhaps it would be best if we advanced faster to their position. Neither they nor we are encountering much threat with the Nucerians here.”

The bile in Typhus’ mask could be heard to congregate as he prepared a response.

“Angron has never been one to practice adaptation, Lord Grugor. He has not traversed Nuceria and Ultramar in the days since he destroyed them..”

Phlegm and moisture sucked through the respirator as Typhus drew breath, “Angron has only seen those jousts of Primarchs in what The North calls their “Great Crusades.” He doesn’t know or understand true war as we do.”

The low voice of Grugor murmured something below the weapons fire and the demonic flies that covered his armor, then raised his voice to speak again.

“Does The Primarch remember that we are here for a raid? Or was he hoping to relive past vengeance here?”

Grugor, the apothecary, turned his gaze to a large range of hills off in the distance of the fortification. There, known only to the eidetic memory of ancient Astartes, was the knowledge that the eroding hills interred whatever remained of the old hive cities of Nuceria. The civilization that once enslaved Angron was long since destroyed, entirely by Angron himself. What remained of The Gladiator’s legend was too distant and mythological for the settlers of Nuceria to have any connection with. The forest world knows nothing of Red Sands. Herald Typhus, ousted Prince of these lands is a name that carries more traction here now.

Typhus collected his thoughts and drew the bile he needed to respond.

“Angron still fights as though it is the great crusade.”

His respirator hissed out. “Lorgar and his ilk have been sheltered from what has ravaged the Southeast, and that makes them reckless.”

His helmet rattled again, all the while another 78 Ultramari warriors had fallen; he had not lost count, he never lost count.

Typhus spoke again, “He remembers Gulliman’s Ultramar - the one we destroyed. The names remain, but The Ultramar of Planners and Philosophers was never rebuilt. He doesn’t know...the people have seen much and fought more. They are hardier now, Accustomed to death and invasions... They are used to fighting while weak.”

“He will learn, then,” Grugor snorted, “and when he does he will return to our defense empty-handed and take whatever share of our hordes he desires.”

“Fret not, Gregor." Typhus’ blade swung again, his voice matching the slow deliberate strikes. "The Rotfather knows every seed of discord we plant, and counts every corpse and illness we make. Reckon ourselves with his reckoning, not Angron’s.” 

The two veterans of The old Death Guard resisted the growing impetuousness of their underlings. Many of these Young Plague Guards with Grugor and Typhus were tributaries from what was once Typhus’ realm, some even from this planet. The loss of Nucreria stung them and they were eager to strike down the usurpers to the privileges lost. But the old Barbarans- Typhus, and Grugor- held the leash of their battle-brothers tight. There was no glory hounding, the warriors remained within the cloud of Nurgle's rot and corrosion. This was not from some weakness or lethargy on the part of Typhus. The putrid gifts of Nurgle, the diabolical science of Fabius Bile, and the indomitable ambition of Typhus had kept the warrior in his prime long after his comrades had been interred into the stone tomb or the steel tomb of the dreadnought. No, the slow deliberation of Typhus came from his experience. He dare not lose the rhythm of battle.

Typhus recognized the uniforms and symbols of the uniforms worn. Their bone-white and blue uniforms emblazoned with the unmistakable crossbones and  _ U _ betrayed them as The Pelerins of Maccragge. He had underestimated them once, less than a millennia ago, when they seized Maccrage in Ultramar’s “Quest for the Bones of The Aurelian.” The mistake not only cost them Maccragge, but the troops squandered in the bungled defense were sorely missed when The Tyranids finally claimed Sotha, the Capital of Imperium Undivided. He had watched the regiments grow from militias of desperate fanatics, into a robust army of desperate fanatics. They were not like the myriad of armies and militias that populated the 3000 worlds of Ultramar, those armies often had their cultural traits, tactics, and leadership stratagems. The sclerosis of the Trillileurs, the rigidity of Nova Thulium, or the brittleness of Prandium, all had cultural and strategic tendencies that made them exploitable, but the Pelerins had no such culture. 

The Pelerins were penitent thieves, traumatized civilians, broken soldiers, and spurned children pulled from Gulliman worshippers from across the galaxy. They clogged the orphanages, guesthouses, and pilgrimage sites of Maccragge, only to be redirected to hopeless causes in the name of The Queen Mother and The Holy Bones. There was no unified experience for this army but the shared pilgrimage to Maccragge, and no rival but the one The Spiritual Liege points them towards. This was not an army, it was a regimented band of Cultists, and as such were guided by invisible, powerful forces. His men needed not tactical prowess, but faith--faith that The Rotfather would not abandon them to The Aurelian. Typhus hoped Angron had that faith too, as he didn’t have any sense of tactics. 

“Pour Sanfyelle, Pour lesost!”

A weathered woman dressed as a laborer, charged towards Typhus. The sawblades of what looked like an only slightly modified mining tool collided with the hilt of The Manreaper. Sparks and ungodly sounds flew from the hilt as Typhus steeled himself to look into the fire and passion that burned across her face, even as her body was physically retching from the toxins emitted from the blade. The  worn mining armor and faded yellow tunic showed the telltale signs of fights with tyranids. How many hormagants had this woman stared down with the same intensity as she did him? Typhus' very presence and appearance struck fear in all but the hardest astartes, but now these soldiers seemed to look past his armor. To Typhus' shock, he had to push against the whirring mechanical saw. These Pelerins had nothing to live for and everything to die for: the most dangerous monster.

As the inhuman strength of Typhus pushed against the old miner a promethium blast streamed past Typhus’ right shoulder, instantly transforming the old zealot into a blackened husk.

“A pint of promethium, I present to you, oh putrid patron of rot…” Typhus heard faintly behind him.

“In gratitude for the gifts granted unto us, and to the great decay of the world.”

Typhus rejoined, not breaking his stare with the charred husk, who continued to gaze upon him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to post the rest of this story at least once a week! Thanks for reading. Concrits welcome as I am still editing these drafts.


	4. The Duelist

Far ahead from Typhus’ bitter encampment, Angron and Oenomaus catch up to join Equiana in the revelries. Their weapons massacring the hordes of white- and red-clad troops, crying in a cacophony of cheers and prayers. Angron laughs at their helplessness, depopulating the crowd around him as he spoke..

“Where are your leaders and champions, you fools? Have your gods abandoned you? Call louder, they can’t hear you yet! Tell them that Angron has returned to Ultramar.” 

As he spoke, a voice in the crowd began to sing. The song seemed to enchant the surrounding squads. Slowly, the cackles and babbles subsided as the song crested to Angron’s ears as a chorus. His accursed brother! Did Ultramar sing of anything else? 

A figure dwarfed the throng of soldiers, not as tall as The Gladiators and Angron, but towering over his World Eaters. His silhouette almost resembled Terminator Armor. But the head and legs were significantly larger, giving the figure a proportionality and elegance that made other Astartes seem brutish and microcephalic. His outfit flowed and rippled with intricate patterns that drew the eye. The Gladiators did not recognize the face, but Angron did. It was the Sanguinor, that mold of Sanguinius’ face worn by Horus and other lackeys of The Warmaster. Features of the face were exaggerated: the eyes were hollow and filled with a dizzying array of lights, and in the place of the ears were two very large wings. He had no idea of the meaning behind The Sanguinor or the strange paint scheme, but it was mesmerizing nonetheless. Perhaps it was a parody. Or perhaps this was a Blood Angel; After all the Legion of Sanguinius was obsessed with their fusion of war and art. 

“Is this the ‘Change in Ultramar’ Typhus warned us about?” Equiana laughed, “Ultramar brings clowns to war?”

The figure began to sing, and the soldiers echoed the song. As harmony arose in their voices, the disparate hordes of soldiers became a chorus of death. They still fell in numbers, but they fell with a song on their lips, and Saporin’s Drones were dying with them. Even a few of The World Eaters were brought low as the Zouave volleys began to hit weak spots in World Eater armor. 

The mantled figure unsheathed his rapier and locked eyes with Angron. His weapon pulsated with a strange energy; its blade was white-hot, and hair-thin. The Sanguinius head looked towards Angron, and spoke something in an unintelligible language, posing its weapon and begging the Primarch forward. The crowd behind him cheered.

Angron only laughed. Turning to his men he invited them to challenge “Sanguinius” and claim the prize of his armor. Two World Eaters roared and charged the figure, each brandishing weapons pilfered from past battles. 

“Glory to Nurgle, Embrace his Death.” They shouted their battle cries and prepared for combat.

The World Eater fired his Heavy Plasma Rifle, but all rounds bouncing off of The Sanguinor. The Sanguinor ignored the Space Marine, instead turning towards his weapon. He spoke to the Plasma Gun a strange mechanical, yet feminie voice echoing his soothing words to the captured weapon.

“Zamloa, ale nan met ou Petit d’Omsya” 

As soon as this was uttered, the Mars-built Plasma Rifle turned on its captor. A overcharged ball of plasma explodes, freeing the machine spirit and consuming The hapless Marine in a curellian sphere of heat and flame. The Sanguinor then turned to the one with the greatsword. The charging warrior was quickly outmaneuvered by the dancing clownish figure. The World Eater, caught off balance by the dodge, stumbles. The Head of Sanguinius looked down in disapproval as Rapier pierced through the neck, traveling through his chest and exiting through the power pack. Angron hears the gargling of blood through the radio as the World Eater falls down dead. 

“Konsa toujou pou move loa.”

The Towering figure laughs and kicks the World Eater off of his sword. 

Angron was now less amused. He walks towards The Duelist whose cackles echo in Angron’s skull. The two acknowledge each other, and begin to circle. Angron strikes first. He swings, but the blade of the mysterious figure, and his dazzling costume seem to glance every attack. None of his axes seem to land and attempts to slash the figure seem to miss or only glance at the many billowy folds and endless pieces of fabric and purity seals that weave together around this figure. Was this a demon of Gulliman? He had never seen them before, but it was though the figure had no true shape, except to mock Angron. 

They engage again, all of Angron’s swipes and attacks miss, all the while The Duelist pierces and prods at The Great Primarch. Each pierce of the rapier causes new malfunctions in his power suit. Angron ground his teeth. He had fought tougher enemies before, but this flamboyance was engineered to anger him. It was everything that Angron despised in the Imperium: flamboyance, aristocracy. Its aura was of martial nobility, of the superiority of war as art rather than brute experience. Angron was completely focused on the duelist before him now. No longer noticing the soldiers around him, he revelled in the song that was felling World Eaters and Drones around him. 

The Gladiators struggled against the surging tides of Men and Kroot as the song swelled, with the clang of swords serving as percussion. 

“  _ Tout bèl pouvwa Seyè a zo apopou bondye, Mais Je veax pas’en aller, le’ost des os fidelite!”  _

The Drones that were flying above seem to drop like flies behind the enraged primarch while his companions pleas for him to retreat fell on deaf ears. 

Oeomanus and The Lady of The Red Sand were forced back, now struggling against the supernatural abilities of the horde. They were falling behind Angron, and looked to reunite with The Primarch, no longer even trying to kill the swarm of pilgrims, they merely wanted them out of the way. The great shield of Oeomanus plowed through the figures, with Equiana close behind, her net and trident deterring the Winged Kroot warriors. Their charge to Angron’s side halted a hundred yards from the location of the duel. Sacred Symbols surrounded them, alongside two dozen Ancillae and Ultramarines.

The Ultramarines, Orphaned Astartes of Roboute Gulliman, were clad in archaic Mk2 crusade armor, similar to The World Eaters. But where The World Eaters were covered in lichen, vines and rust, the Ultramarines were meticulously polished, carefully engraved with holy symbols, medallions, and purity seals. Equiana rammed against The Silver and Red armored Marine. Her form recoiled and shivered against the ornate shield, carved with prayers and purity seals. She shrieked and circled the enclosure. It was no matter, The Figures chanted their Litanies, 

“Elektra ducat manus me. Lumelle, 

lumene oculi me, 

Casquede’Rouge, 

specte me. 

Sacra Martyres Calthi 

fortise me.” 

Oeomanus tried to charge at a figure behind the shield wall, A Sororitas in Advanced Armor and a Red Chaperon. His lunge towards the figure failed. And Oeomanus fell to the chalk engraved ground. 

“Fight us! Cowards of Gulliman! Face the wrath of Nurgle with your weapons!” 

Oeomanus howled.

The figure ignored him, and continued reciting a binding ritual from the tome. The demons shrieked and circled around the Red and Silver clad warriors, looking for a hole in their ritual enclosure. There was none.

Angron likely didn’t know of these figures, but The two Gladiators did. They were “The Knights of St. Aeonid.” All warpspawn knew of Calth and her Order of  Demonslayers and Exorcists. The Demons realized with horror, this was not a raid, it was a trap. 

“Natala et Oeomanus In Nome Sanfyelle et Gulliman, Je dephicshio ad te latombe.” 

The Ancillae with the book continued to chant, with the host of warriors rejoining. The Wall of Gold and Silver Shields and Reliquaries encased them in holy symbols. They cried to Angron for help, but he could not hear them.

Angron and The Duelist were locked in their dance of combat. The figure mocked him in his foreign tongue. So far, Angron had so far been unable to break the defenses and parries of The Duelist. His swiftness of foot weaving around Angron’s clumsy ax swings. What strikes were not dodged, were parried by The Sanguinor’s knife held in the offhand. Meanwhile, The Duelist’s long pincer sword had poked and prodded at Angron. Never piercing his flesh, yet with every pierce, his Power Armor would malfunction. Angron had long since been forced to discard parts of his armor. His Pauldrons and outer breastplate, 10,000 year relics of non-stop conflict, were left inert on the battlefield. Angron made an attempt for the massive head of The Sanguinor, he ducked and his rapier stabbed the left kneecap of The Primarchs armor, locking it in place. 

With his boot malfunctioning, Angron was trapped, pathetically swinging his weapon at the Figure, while the gloating figure continued to land strike after strike on Angron. Some of the strikes were now breaking through the armor and into his flesh, his skin convulsed from the electrical current emanating from the blade. He was a prisoner of his own armor, the electrocutions prodding him like a captured animal. Looking around him no one was coming to his aid, tides of soldiers diverted around the two figures flooding over the World Eaters and Plague Guard far behind. He would not die like a beast, while a Son of Guliman laughed. He had no choice; he forced his armor to eject.

Angron ripped apart the pieces of armor with his bare hands, in a fury the pieces exploded across the battlefield like shrapnel. Angron, stripped of his trappings of leadership emerged from the armor. 

“I will not be denied, Sanguinius!” he roared.

The Challenger only laughed as he continued his deadly dance. 

The battle continued, with the Sanguinor gracefully matching every strike. His performance somehow draws the energy from Angron’s wrath and transmits it to the dance. The song of the soldiers was faster, in tempo with the dancer, breathlessly they sang their praises To The Three-Headed Eagle. As his motions became faster, more fluid and exuberant, the horde of Guardsmen swept over the battlefield. World Eaters and Drones left to drown in a sea of frenzied pilgrims. 

Those World Eaters who remained retreated to Typhus’ position, collecting the bodies of friends and foes alike. A makeshift fortification wall built on the corpses of foes and the warded blessings of The Rotfather. The drones move back and forth, struggling to fulfill their mission and collect bodies as they can. Helplessly fulfilling their tasks and warding off their prizes from the death chorus that was once an army. The Plague Guard prepare for an evacuation to The Terminus Est, encouraging The World Eaters to join them. Gathering as many supplies and loot as possible, Typhus upon seeing the horde of warriors entrapping the two demons, ordered his army to steer clear of The Knights and slowly march to Angron. As much as the Primarch irritated him, He knew Nurgle would prefer His Champion survive over two daemons. 

Angron and the duelist fought as the battlefield collapsed around him. In the corner, Angron could see the Ancient Power Armor of The Ultramarines Chapters. The Ultramarine high priests are not here to fight Angron but merely to support the strange Sanguinor, and the soldiers themselves, taking the wounded and blessing the dead. The army already won the battle, and is preparing to clean up, only some archaic tradition of the duel is keeping Angron from being swarmed by the soldiers. Once again, after 10,000 years, Angron, the Gladiator of The Red Sands, returns to Nuceria, not in Triumph but naked and forced to fight to the death before a chanting crowd - a fight he is losing. There was no backing out, he was trapped by his comrades, and should he abandon the fight, The World Eaters may not be long for this world. The artillery begins to mount up and fire and columns of smoke can be seen in the sky, the crash of downed escapecraft can be heard. 

For anyone else, this would perhaps be a time of reflection, bargaining, and panic. But Angron’s entire life had been final stands and final moments. The Champion of death had little to contemplate about it. He whispers a prayer of gratitude to the Lord of Decay and charges forward. The Towering figure, steadies his blade, and prepares a strike. The rapier goes through the heart of the Primarch, but Angron continues his assault. Between the resilience of Nurgle and the Anathema, whose gifts Angron detested, the weapon could not kill him. The strange figure tried to jump back from Angron’s axe, his blade breaking inside his opponent. 

“Lumelle, Je nunc nan pòt la” he cried. 

At last it was Angron’s turn to laugh. Manicly and rabidly he did so. The strange figure began to lose his composure and posture. Moving his knife to his main hand, the fight becomes more frantic with the speech of the figure struggling to keep the facade of haughtiness. It was compensation rather than genuine confidence. Angron could smell his fear. But Space Marines were not supposed to show feel fear. 

“It couldn’t be possible.” Angron recoiled at the thought himself.

He pressed his attack. the billowy folds of exotic linens, and white, red and colorful silks withered away with every swing. As the figure is he's hacked apart the folds expose a lightened suit of the Terminator armor. In one last gasp the exposed figure drives his knife into Angron’s neck, dropping the two of them into the muddy earth. 

The fight was now brutal and dirty, just like Angron liked it. Yet around them, the Melody of the song did not stop - only changed. The name of his Brother and the Emperor clearly being heard multiple times in the chant. The Axes chained to his wrists were buried into the terminator armor of the figure. Angron was using his bare hands now, hacking and ripping apart the struggling figure, the rage so long suppressed from his battles was found again. Plate by plate, the armor kept falling apart the head, the golden head of the Angelic Primarch shattered and misformed revealing it to be a false head. The intricate mask of The Warmaster Sanguinius was exposed to be hollow with archaic yet delicately refined components like Perterabo’s contraptions. He continues digging into the armor like a hound retrieving some buried bone. The crowd surrounding him continues to chant, rather than diminishing themselves. They shout louder. As the song is reaching its crescendo. Angron’s Warriors form a defensive formation around him, struggling to keep the horde away.

At last, the final fasteners and helmet layer came loose. 

The inner helm cracked away only to reveal that the figure was little more than a man. His smooth features denoted some form of aristocratic life. The skull of the figure showed no implant scar common to Astartes, nor was the Black Carapace on his chest. There was no demon, nor astartes with their centuries of training. It was neither a noble son of Sanguinius or Gulliman. Angron beheld the man and howled like a wounded dog. 

The man, soft spoken without his vox, was caught in a strange ecstasy. Despite the terrifying host on top of him, he continued to mutter things in his foreign tongue and offered a soft smile to Angron. This man was beaten, beyond any sort of punishment most humans could enter, the figure looked at the primarch with sudden clarity. Locking eyes with his enemy, he spoke in perfect Nucerian.  **“Angron, my son”** The fallen soldier transitioned to that archaic language forgotten even by the new World Eaters. 

“ **A table will be set for devourers, but your children will starve. Food will be presented which you will not eat. But others will eat your fill. The Crows will plague the Gardens, and feast it barren. Will you greet me when I come to make it grow?** ” 

The man expired, now golden eyes, wide in ecstasy. Angron roared like a wounded beast, and flew into a blood drunk rage. He attacked the corpse. As naked, feral body grappled and tore at the corpse, he screamed in the slaves’ cant of his bitter youth.

“Fuck your Angels!”

Shards of sanguinius’ bronze face pierced through his fists.

“Fuck your Gulliman”

Angron’s hands ripped through the chest armor only to pounce at his heart.

“Fuck your Vision”

Angron yanked the knife from his neck in a single movement.

“Fuck your Imperium”

The knife and his fist frantically disemboweled the man. The body’s joyful expression is unchanging.

“Fuck You!”

His bare arms red, raw and torn, He continued to beat the dead body of The Duelist, leaving it a pulp. A team of World Eaters dragged their screaming genefather towards The Plague Guard. Angron was lost in a world of rage, dragging the body of the duelist and continued to attack the fallen warrior. The World Eaters struggled to drag their catatonic genefather to Plague Guard camp, as the frenzied mob chased after them.

The Plague Guard briefly broke their shield enclosure, making an opening for the bearers of Angron. The moment Angron was through the enclosure, the Plague Guard quickly reformed ranks into a close phalanx of plague marines. Those World Eaters straggling behind were abandoned outside the walls. Their cries to Father Angron and Father Nurgle drowned as the cascading torrent of frenzied guardsmen swallowed them.

Still pulverizing the fallen duelist, Angron, howling and cursing the Name of The Emperor and Gulliman, finally looked up to his battlefield in ruins. 

The Soldiers of Ultramar screamed in one voice:

“Saleur Kaitou! Saleur Lumelle” 

“Lanmò l 'loa,”

Crash.

No longer acting as troops but as a single organism, the culists shook against The Plague Guards’s fortifications like a wave. With each cry sweeping World Eaters and Drones with the receding tide. Plague Eater and Drone Ships were racing to evacuate, dragging what loot and fallen they could carry; desperately hoping to outrun the swarms of Soldiers. In the distance, Oeomanus and Equiana writhed in their cages of Wards and Relics, being carted away by the chanting sisters. Around him the bodies of World Eaters surrounded by the mounds of Guardsmen. 

“Defend The Primarch!” Typhus and the remaining forces quickly broke and reformed their position around him. The shield wall surrounded him, the entire army tightly packed and dense enough to be teleported in a single burst. The shield wall buckled as he heard the ever deafening crash of the holy warriors and their weapons colliding against the defenders. Typhus interrupted Angron's racing mind. “My Lord, we must leave this accursed land.” 

\----***----

In the loading bay of Typhus’ great vessel, Angron, prepares for the return to his own ship. In the distance, The World Eaters gathered what loot and trophies there were from the bloodbath of a raid, and brought them to the auditorium of the Death's Head. There they would be divided amongst themselves. 

In front of him, The Warrior Drones of Saporin were observing as several smaller worker drones inspected the pile of corpses. They were arguing with each other with their insectoid prattle while they prepared the bodies of soldiers, villagers, and handmaidens for storage and processing. At The Death Conqueror, their rotting flesh would be used to produce the honey that fed The Hive of Soporin. Unceremoniously in the middle of the pile, was the stripped and brutalized body of his adversary. Nothing separating him from the other mounds of flesh around him, save the contented look and golden eyes. Angron stared at him briefly before looking into the ship.

His fellow World Eaters continue their own custom of presenting their trophies in piles before the Primarch. Both to receive approval and commendation, as well as allowing their leader to claim his share from amongst them. For all intents and purposes this raid should be considered a victory and Angron smiled and laughed when among his compatriots as if it was. There was nothing in this battle that should have disturbed Angron; many of his own battle brothers had died in battles before. It was not uncommon for a World Eater to fall in battle eventually. Though mighty warriors indeed, enough grunts could drown them. Death was inevitable, and what warrior could not be more proud of exchanging one life for an untold thousand number of soldiers. 

Furthermore, the loot and bodies collected from this raid had been substantial, Ultramar had clearly become wealthy since Angron had scourged it. The corpses had been piled and filled several storage rooms that were already prepared to be sent to the Death Conqueror for processing. In addition to the numerous trophies, those too worthless for The World Eaters, greedily hoarded by the drones. 

To appease the many members of the World Eaters, Angron usually withheld his right of first claim, and with an active gentility to his comrades, waited for others to go first to take their share. That being said, the World Eaters knew not to take the best trophies for themselves. The Army of Pilgrims spread had many fallen nobles, and eccentric individuals with eccentric keepsakes. It was a fantastic bounty from a hard-fought battle. They had no doubt their Gene-father would be pleased with exotic trinkets. 

The Primarch had already taken from the loot prior to it being presented, having needed to collect a new suit of armor for himself. None of his World Eaters would begrudge him this, yet Angron still limited himself to a few baubles. He grabbed a Red Sisterhood’s pauldron, a rosarius, the gold, white, and blue banner of the regiment that was slaughtered, which Angron proceeded to wear as a cape, an axe, and a galvanic rifle. Only the Knife made him pause. The offhand weapon of his opponent, unearthed from his hardened neck. The World Eaters looked on as Angron paused to inspect it among all the other treasures. Without a doubt it was created for The Astartes, it was large enough to be a sword for many smaller individuals. Somehow, it made its way to this strange noble warrior who tested Angron in combat. The heel of the blade was etched with the Charge of The Blood Angels. Alongside was an etching of the ubiquitous U of Ultramar - an overused symbol throughout this realm - and symbols of waves. Perhaps an identifier to the local planet from which the noblemen hailed. No doubt there was a story of how this Blood Angel knife came into the possession of a Gulliman worshipping non-astartes, but the story died with its owner.

He left the trophy room to seek solace, as the others divided the remainder amongst themselves. Something about this battle had unnerved him. Perhaps it was the fact that the accursed sons of his brother did not arrive to fight, or worse was that they did not need to. Once he, Lorgar and Typhus would tower above the common man; conquer entire worlds with a handful of Astartes. Whatever his thoughts of Typhus, Ahriman, and others, he never doubted their prowess as warriors. Was this what bested their kingdom? The thought that Angron was now an outdated noble warrior like them was unsettling. But Angron, already a relic of a past, did not fear obsolescence.

Despite his efforts to drown it out, the prophecy of the duelist echoed in his mind. He was never one for prophecies; prophecies were for those too arrogant to speak plainly. Every Chaos Demon and Eldar farseer always had a war chest full of cryptic maxims. Even Angron would make up “Nurgle Prophecies'' during battle as a joke. He tried to brush it off as some gimmick from The Aurelian, but he could not fool himself. Yu’gnomia, The Golden Aurelian of Ultramar, never addressed Angron personally. Nor would the cautious Lord make such a thinly veiled threat against another Chaos God. He was growing in strength, true, but a threat against The Gardens of Nurgle would be callous, and threaten the tentative peace in the warp. 

When all was prepared, Agron gave his farewells to Typhus, and the other members of the Plague Guard. Plans were set for the upcoming crusade, as well as future raids. They exchanged their stale oaths to Chaos Undivided and duplicitous Blessings of Nurgle and kinship of faith. Then Typhus, in a typical bout of arrogance commended Agron for his fighting prowess and skill, saying something to the effect of, “It's not often that one can take on Gens d'Armes and survive. But it should be expected of such a warrior is you.” Such half meant praise and condescension from a man who was substantially less proficient was common for him. Angron had lost his stomach for a competition of boasts. He ignored the slight, thanked Typhus, and boarded the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the length of this one. This is the first time ive written a battle sequence. Thank you all for reading!


	5. Interlude: The Officer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lotarra confronts the Emperor about the butcher's nails

“You can summon fleets with a word and create marvels with your genetic science, yet somehow this archeotech is irreparable? Forgive me, my Lord but I don’t believe you.” 

**“Perhaps it would be more pertinent to inquire how you obtained such information."** Ruptured the golden voice.

**"Should it exist, It would be very sensitive.”**

Lotara wasn’t prepared to tell the Emperor where her information on The Butcher’s Nails was sourced. Frankly she wasn't sure which source was more damning: the drug-induced vision quest with a warp-entity, or the “acquired” copy of Malcador’s own autopsy. Now that she thought about it out loud, she began to question why she pursued this at all. Lotara was a decorated officer with the respect of the Navy and invasion forces. This stature of her exploits earned her many favors with the Upper Echelon of Imperial Command. She called in many of those favors to gain this audience - an audience she increasingly worried was a mistake.

“Nothing on this ship occurs without my knowledge. I have my sources.” 

She asserted, then intentionally glanced at the band of Tech priests assembled in the Audience. The Tech-priests tried to avoid her glance, fearing to be implicated. It wasn’t a complete lie, she did visit The Conqueror's resident Magos Biologis to inquire about Angron. Of course, without Alpharius’ message she would not have known the right questions to ask, but with that document destroyed who was to know?

The Emperor noticed the glance, and seemed satisfied with the information.

**“Nonetheless, The Butcher’s Nails uncoiled in Angron’s mind are too entrenched to be safely removed.”**

“And that is it? Angron and The World Eaters, the Astartes you created, are going to die as drooling madmen on some planet.”

**“I did not create The World Eaters, Captain Sarrin. I gave Angron my War Hounds, a legion exemplary in prowess and fraternity.”**

Almost on cue, The World Eaters began to howl, snarl, and whimper. The Great Golden being sighed. **“Angron took my Astartes and insisted they all receive The Butcher’s Nails. They are his creation and will partake in his destiny. The Butcher’s Nails claimed his mind before all of us, and his death was inevitable whether it be on his homeworld of Nuceria, a Planet he conquers, or The Dungeons of your Conqueror. Your fate - The undertaking that I entrusted you with - is to provide Angron with a meaningful worthy death.”**

“So you intend to dump my ship with your worthless astartes? I do not appreciate receiving broken equipment.”

**“Nor do I, Captain.”**

Angron snarled at this. The World Eaters were becoming restless and The Space Marines in The Emperor’s Retinue were clearly increasingly irritated. To the assembled, the difference between The Space Wolves and World Eaters could not be more stark. The trophy and fur covered armor of Leman’s Legion was just as uncouth, disrespectful, and foolhardy as The World Eaters. Yet they revelled in their madness and were lauded for it. She looked to see Kharn struggle to calm Angron and his brothers, despite The Butcher’s Nails ravaging his own mind.  _ They deserve better than this,  _ Lotara thought. She persisted.

“Surely it is in your interest to save him.”

**“It is not your place to tell me what is in my interest, Flag Captain.”**

“If not for your Commander, at least for your son! You have favored your other sons: Leman, Fulgrim, Dorn. Why must Angron be left to suffer? Have you no heart for him?”

There was no response, The Emperor's silence deafened the room. It was answer enough.

The audience was apparently over. The Emperor turned to leave. Her mind raced as she tried to keep the Emperor from turning away, then sputtered.

“What happened at Molech? What did Angron do for you to--”

**“SILENCE!”**

At the word, The Emperor of Mankind rose into righteous anger. Such secrets were not for mortals to know, and how they did was concerning. In a fury The Emperor turned around and focused his powerful mind on the mere human, and pushed her aside.

For a human in her prime, Lotara was a woman of exception. A Captain of one of the Finest ships in the Imperial Navy, and the victor of hundreds of battles against a multitude of unknown threats. Her mind and discipline could carve through the galaxy as though it was soft clay. She towered above her species, and her ambition, strength and acuity made her almost superhuman. But none of that matters against the Galaxy’s most powerful Psyker.

She was helpless against the Emperor’s Might. The force of his mind flung her across the auditorium of her ship like a rag doll. The walls made no mention or notice of her impact with them. And the soft sounds of her bones shattering was audible only to those near her. The metallic floor coldly received her slumped body, as she lay face down to drown in her own bodily fluids. She was only human, and she would die as pathetically as the rest.

Angron and Kharn raced to the body of a fallen comrade, Angron’s skin pulsating from the rage. His mind was on fire, it was always on fire, but there was still a part of Angron that recognized the attendance of a fallen comrade. To be present with his battle brothers as they died, something he could not give on Nuceria. Kharn went to the assembled host, screaming for an apothecary, none listend. The Host, while fearing Kharn, feared the Emperor more.

Bending low to her convulsing body, sputtering blood, Angron turned her over, but could feel the shattered skeleton make new tares. He dare not touch her further, for fear he would make the pain worse. The physical torment of The Butcher’s Nails subjected him to intensified the mental pain of his haunted conscience. He thought of Oenomaus, the once mentor he was forced to strike down in the arena - like a rabid dog. He thought of Equiana, and the others, they died alone without him, hacked to pieces by that vile planet of slavers, whilst he was teleported away. He had nothing to offer but his own presence. It was all he could hope to offer, but it was a cold comfort. 

Lotarra could feel her body breaking down, her eyes faded in and out. Seeing only the face of Angron, looming over her, struggling to contain his rage. The veins in his face pulsating and beads of blood forming like sweat on his forehead.  _ Is this how it ends? _ She thought to herself horrified.  _ That’s all. _ Her life flashed before her as though to mock her. All of those she crushed under her heel, all that she conquered. She was determined that she would die with her ship, but not merely on it. Killed as an afterthought by the Lord she had so tirelessly fought and subjugated for. She never feared death before, but as she now faced complete oblivion, for the first time in her life she was afraid.

Then faintly, she heard a familiar dream like voice,

**“Do not fear Little Larva. A caterpillar must die to transform. Your ship can be your cocoon. And your hive. Do not fret for this form. You can grow again.”**

Lotarra finally understood,  _ You really are the god of death, _ her mind affirmed. 

**“And the life that death creates.”** Said The Voice.  **“I can teach you more, but you must be willing. Will you become my Pupa, Little Larva?”**

Her eyes continued - with difficulty - to see the face above her. Angron’s face was a warzone. His sorrow fighting a losing battle against the rage that always claimed him.

_ What of Angron? What of The World Eaters. _ She asked in her mind. Her jaw long since useless.

**“You can save them, I will give you that power. They will be yours to command, You will be their queen, if you be my insect. Serve me.”**

Angron could only stare at the spasming body, her jaundiced eyes staring through him. None came to them, none dared offer aid. Her right arm, broken in several locations, struggled to point towards her chest. Finally understanding, Angron ripped her tunic open, thinking perhaps she needed air. Instead it only exposed a strange Green-copper amulet, in the midst of the bruised and broken ribs. He grabbed the amulet, and leaned close to her. From the silent onlookers, it was though he moved to put her out of her misery. Blood and bile oozed out of her mouth as she coughed, her breath bubbled with fluids. She struggled to speak.

“Scho Lhor -gha” she managed to whisper to Angron.

Coughing one final time, as her broken body finally spasmed for a few moments. It was still now. 

The pain and grief convulsed through his body. His Skin pulsed as rage won against sorrow in the war for Angron’s mind. His muscles twitched and moved unnaturally, as though his body hoped to expel itself. Droplets of blood beaded like sweat along his forehead as he looked upon the dead comrade. In the distance, Kharn could be heard screaming, restrained by the Emperor’s Custodes, the only warriors capable of meeting the brute strength ofThe World Eaters. A small crowd gathered around the two, muttering to themselves, and prepared to cart away the body of the flag officer to a place of disgrace. The Primarch could take no more. Angron snapped.

A blood-piercing shout staggered those near him in terror. With the axes chained to his arms, The screaming mad berzerker ravaged his way through the auditorium, officers and soldiers left as little more than pulp. The final resting place of Lotara Sarin was soaked with blood and embroidered with the corpses and blood of The Imperial Navy. Angron was now a rabid animal. 

Leman Russ, Primarch of The Space Wolves and Lion El’Johnson, Primarch of the Dark Angels moved themselves closer to The Emperor. With joyless yet determined faces they unsheathed their weapons. They looked at each other, and then to The Emperor, waiting for his command to do what they had done twice before. The Emperor kept his eyes fixated on Angron, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed his Two Loyal sons. Instead, he walked slowly towards the wounded beast barreling towards him.

In a collision that would have shattered rockcrete, Angron’s axes met The Emperor of Mankind’s Hand. Yet it did not phase him, instead his Talon grasped Angron’s ax, and flung it aside, the chain binding the ax to Angron’s left wrist snapped. The Lord of Mankind’s voice boomed through the hall.

**"I offer you victory, and you defy me! I offer you a place as my son, and you spit in my face! I give you a legion, and you mutilate it with your pathetic obsession with rage. Does this rage strengthen you? You think your nails give you power, yet you can not lay a hand on me."**

Effortlessly parrying Angron, The Emperor slaps Angron with his Talon, leaving deep bleeding scars across his face. 

**"You cower behind The Butcher's Nails you useless mad dog. You! Your Legion! Your sons were handcrafted by myself, and given the finest from Terra. My Noble Hounds, my finest warriors, made impotent with YOUR pathetic anger!"**

Angron struggled to get up once more, only to be thrown down yet again. The Emperor's will forced The World Eaters to their knees. Their bodies are forced to revere Angron's destitution.

**"Have I angered you with her death? Good. Then Rage! Rage You fool! Is that not what you are!”**

The other bystanders could only watch as Angron was humiliated before his gene-sons. The tauntings only continued.

**“Son of Anger! Failed Insurgent! Rage more! Find solace in your pathetic seething Soul! Your rage is as impotent as you are."**

The Emperor's words were filled with a gloating humiliation. Angron attempts were little more than principle or instinctive. He got up only to be once again thrown on the floor. This was no longer a fight. This was a father beating his son, or perhaps a master whipping his dog. Kicking the writhing form across the Conqueror. Khårn looked around Angron's 'brothers,' all of them frozen like children, eyes longing to help their brother, but dreading to speak less they joined Angron beaten and bloodied on the floor.

**"You are not worth maintaining, so either die useful, or die here broken. It makes no difference to me."**

\--***--

The bruised and beaten husk of Angron was ordered to be taken away to his quarters. The Emperor selected one of the many uniformed surrounding the chamber, congratulating Him on his promotion to Flag officer of The Conqueror. The rest of the Retinue raced to find some topic to distract them from the day’s events. In an impromptu performance of normalcy. They departed the ship. 

A price of the ever constant pain and suffering of the Butcher’s Nails was sleep deprivation. The Superhuman body of Angron struggled to keep himself alive despite this, yet it was killing him nonetheless. Yet for the first time, since their implantation, Angron was unconscious. Kharn and Three World Eaters took their defeated gene father and general to his chamber. They were unsure what would happen next, the wounds, undoubtedly fatal to anyone else would heal. It was his already ravaged mind that worried them. All the while, Angron muttered indecipherably, clutching something on his chest.

Back in the audience chamber, there was nothing but the robotic hum of the servitors, searching through the bodies. The servitors that took records of the dead, and prepared the bodies for processing. Cremation should they be worthy, processing into more servitors should they not. The body of Former Captain Lotara Sarrin, was nowhere to be found. Only a puddle of various insects scurried around her place of rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If there are any issues with the story so far let me know, I would be happy to make revisions.


	6. The Vial

Angron strode towards the Bridge of the Death-Conqueror amid the hexagon corridors. Lacking a new suit of armor, Angron’s looted imperial colors glared out from the ship’s deep greens, lichen yellows, mycelium reds, and earthy browns. Despite the yet to be defaced Imperial livery, none mistook him for anything other than the Champion of Nurgle, as the crew of the ship scurried to avoid crossing his path. Those with wings flew to the side, and those without clung to one of the nearby walls as they scampered off to perform their duties for the ship. Angron did not look at the various insect-like humans but heard their pointed feet made soft noises against the wax and moss covered ship. Behind him, the crew scuttled behind him to clean the massive footprints his massive form made against the wax covered floor. One of these days, he thought to himself, he would compliment the crew on their maintenance of the ship. While the lack of any standard noises was mildly disturbing, the endless clanking of boots on metal, gases churning through pipes, and screeches of metal against metal used to drive the Primarch mad. 

The Conqueror of Nuceria was unique among the ships among The Rotfather, and even among the forces of chaos. While timid servants of the false emperor would find it horrific, it was clean and orderly, and lacked the superficial markings of excess found among the forces of chaos. So many of his fellow traitors treated their decadent collapse as a sign of devotion to the plague bringers and sons of decay. Having recently Travelled as a guest of Lord Typhus, he couldn't help but compare the immaculately clean wax covered hexagonal corridors to the rancid and decrepit tubes that covered The Plague Guard, like diseased arteries. All of the horrid, grating sounds as if steel and ceramite itself was heaving from infection and that circuits and thrusters could vomit and wretch. 

Perhaps the only thing more vile and toxic than The Terminus Est was its captain. Typhus, The Lord Commander of the Plague Guard, who had the arrogance to boast about the despicable state of his ship! As though the leaves, lichen, and vines of Angron's scalp was proof of a lack of Nurgle’s favor, when compared to the bloated, fly-infested, and corroded flesh of Typhus. What's more, the spurned son of both of his genefather, Mortarion, and his biological father on Barbarus, seemed to imply it as proof that he and his beloved would be eclipsed by the rising cloud of his Plague Guard. Another time, Angron would have seen such a slight against his beloved as reason to attack the bloated failure in a fit of rage. Then again, in those days it was not hard to find reasons to do that. Now he felt mostly bemusement by the little rotting man's self-suppositions. 

Typhus wore the ornamentation of The Rotfather's blessing but he never had more than an infantile understanding of it. But not Saporin, she devoted herself to the hidden workings of atrophy. Saporin was not some petty bloat spawn, she had ascended to become an aspect of The Rotfather's will. And that is because she, unlike Typhus, understood that Nurgle's blessing of rot and decay was a battlefield of new life against death. She devoted herself to The Strategem of Rot. Coordinating Death and decay, like any war, required organization and the union of thousands of beings working in tandem to bring about death. And because none of his bloated pox-ridden and rust covered brothers understood this, they could never hope to replace Saporin as the most favored. Just as His and Luther’s failed experiment could never hope to replace The Imperium of Mankind, or Lorgar for that matter. Angron tried to put this self-satisfaction about Luther and The Plague Guard aside. Certainly, Typhus was a very troubled and delusional man, however, he was right about Nucreria. He may not know what direction it's moving, but Typhus can see the galaxy is changing course.

Angron allowed his muscle memory to guide him through the labyrinthine ship. On occasion, he would guess whether this was once a part of The Conqueror, or one of the many ships that had been salvaged and affixed to the ship. It would be impossible to know by appearance alone, as every corridor was thick with its waxy cavern-like columns and the occasional vines and foliage surrounding holy symbols of The Plaguefather. 

Passing the manufactory chamber without so much of a thought about it, Angron was stopped by one of the creatures. Instinctively, the Great Warrior spun quickly and assumed an attack stance, hands gripping the axes chained by thick vines to his wrists. He softened his pose as he looked at the recoiling massive insect which questioned its courage to tap the Primarch for attention. There were still signs of the being's former human form, in the eyes, fingers, and pockets of flesh that peared through its exoskeleton. Otherwise the creature was a multi-armed being covered in long hairs and chitin. 

"Lord Champ..." the creature redacted its introduction out of nervousness, correcting itself, 

“I mean, My Lor.., I mean, the Beloved of my Mist.." 

"Don't bother with titles, out with it!" Angron said impatiently. He stared at the being whose fully human green eyes struggled to keep contact. Angron, realizing that his intimidation would only delay this discussion longer, broke eye contact. He searched the being, who he recognized as a worker drone. It wore something that was attempting to be a human uniform, a fact that still amused Angron. This ‘uniform’ was little more than an apron covered with pockets, com-badges, and a satchel for a dataslate. Close to what could generously be called the left shoulder was an ornate symbol of Nurgle inscribed within a red hand. It was carrying a data slate and its pockets were lined with samples. The being responded, 

"I came here to talk about the most recent batch of collections you gathered." 

"What's wrong with them?" Angron demanded. 

The creature instinctively recoiled and was preparing to retract, but somewhere it found its ‘spine.’ 

"We don’t know, but to put it Simply...everything.” The creature spoke with the unmistakable helpless frustration of a put-upon subordinate. “The bodies will not decay, we believe that they have been cursed by The Anathema. They have resisted the blessings of The Father, and scientific efforts to undermine this curse have produced little results. What little honey that has been produced is vile and unfit for consumption." 

The creature used its other right arm to pull a small vial from its pocket and gave it to the Primarch. 

Angron accepted the vial, the creature instinctively darted his pincered hand back, expecting Angron to assault him. Angron tried his best to smile in appreciation, but it seemed to only appear like a menacing grimace. The Primarch held up the honey through a nearby light-source, then groaning with irritation that the light was insufficient, he scraped out the wax, moss, larval nests and fungi that had grown around the bright yellow lamp. Thousands of small creatures scattered. 

He held up the honey again. Not having any knowledge of either the mystical or mechanical arts he expected not to see anything. To his shock, even he could tell something was wrong. 

The Creature fretted as it explained, “I had to stop the whole production, and we are now scrubbing and desecrating our machines. I panicked when I saw it and jettisoned the supply. I jettisoned what you collected, Im’ sorry, I was afraid it could hurt the whole batch….:

The honey looked like real honey. It was not the blood red honey with purple luminescent hints that the crew feasted on. It was gleaming golden yellow. He thinks he had tasted such honey. Once when as a slave on Nuceria he was "gifted" with a spoon of it as his prize for victory in the arena. Didn't he hear somewhere that honey came from flowers? It shouldn't come from the rancid flesh of looted corpses like the honey of The Hive. It didn't come from corpses at all, or did it? Angron wasn't sure where materia honey came from, and now that he thought about it, it wouldn't have surprised him if The Slavers of Nuceria made gladiators drink honey made from their fallen comrades. 

"Im suprised that such a thing could resist the blessings of The Plaguebringer, have you contacted the Trisagion, have Lorgar’s wizards offered any advice?" 

It was hard to read the faces of these insects, but Angron could perceive that combination of hurt pride and revulsion. 

"The Word Bearers? The perfervid imbeciles who summon a patch of algae and call it a boon of The Rotfather? They would have some council for the magnificent apiaries of The Conqueror? I would not dare risk them poking around MY!" 

Angron looked on amusingly and the creature corrected itself, now out of embarrassment, 

"...Queen's great halls." 

_ Good answer _ , thought Angron before speaking aloud, "Will this impede the Crusade?" 

"Crusade!" The Creature gasped. “So soon? We still haven't replenished our numbers from the Last Crusade. Lord Urizen can't be serious. We aren't ready." 

"Lord Urizen tells poor jokes. How long do you need?" Angron asked 

The creature instinctively reached for the holstered dataslate. Taking a moment to review the estimates, Eyes fixed to the screens as its three arms and eight fingers reviewed what information it had gathered from its time in processing. Angron had intended the question to be rhetorical, but his point was lost in the flurry of calculations the keeper was running in its head. He was caught flat footed by the meticulous accounting of the creature and braced himself for a barrage of numbers and projections. The creature began listing its information, speaking just as much to itself as Angron:

"Between the acquisition of new candidates for transformation, replenishing honey production, inspecting the honey processing, acquiring research from undoing the effects of this incorruption plague. Even if we rush the current batch of incubation and training of new larva at the most optimistic it will take at least 75 years." 

"You don't have 75 years." Angron replied curtly, "you have 20 at most." 

"It can't be done." 

"If it can't be done, Then we will fight The Crusade undermanned, and replenish as we fight." 

"What! My Queen is running an intricate and sophisticated operation. We aren't a bunch of pain-addled meatheads choosing to die on a hilltop." 

_ So the drones do talk.  _ Angron raised an eyebrow, the creature in horrified realization, stumbled to correct.

"With all due respect..." 

Angron interrupted, "With. All. due. Respect." Angron lingered and carefully pronounced each word, making it explicitly clear just how much respect a forgotten Hive drone is owed by her queen’s husband and her god’s champion. 

The creature’s head dropped, sufficiently cowed. Angron hated that phrase. The passive aggressive slight of cowards and lords. He understood that his lover was ardent for rules and hierarchy, but that didn’t mean he had to. His World Eaters were an egalitarian band of brothers, which was as he liked it. His irritation passed, He paused to find a nametag somewhere on the creature- couldn't find it. He continued.

"Listen...brood keeper? I’m going to let you in on a secret. Your subordinates may have all these grand designs to make warfare a game of chance and currencies. But in the end all wars are ‘pain-addled meatheads dying on a hilltop.’ Your intricate organization doesn't fight wars or win battles, it just helps us choose the hilltop.”

The creature was about to protest, then Angron pointed to an inconspicuous hallway to his right. Do you think that your brain and white piece of cloth protects you from the realities of war? Does it protect the planets we raid? If The Night Lords come blasting through that hallway again will that dataslate of yours stop their knives or bolter fire?" 

The creature whimpered, it's green eyes grew wide in terror, and its coiling spine shrunk. Angron was surprised by its shock, 

''It does not remember? That was only 4 crusades ago.'' 

As he stooped to pick up the Broodkeeper's dropped dataslate, Angron softened his voice as best as he could, 

"What is your name broodlord?" 

The creature reflexively began to spill out a mess of screeches, chirps and unintelligible noises, before remembering who was speaking. 

"Sorry, I believe I was once called Zoay." 

"Did you serve with us on The Conqueror, Zoay, or have you joined us later?" 

"The Conqueror?" The word was echoed with a mythic reverence. 

“No, I was part of a Macharian raid I believe." 

Angron thought to himself, the Macharian raids were within the last few centuries. From what Soporin told her of the gestation, it takes at least 100 years - longer for advanced drones as she was. This brood keeper had served barely over a century, which means this was only her second crusade. 

"You are extraordinarily young for a Brood-keeper, so The Queen must clearly see promise in your skills for you to report to me." 

More likely her superiors selected her to report catastrophic failure to The Primarch, but Angron kept that thought to himself. The heartless machinations of superiors against their underlings never ceased to amaze him. He tried to encourage the creature. 

"I understand this fear you have. You are afraid of pain, of failure, of death. I used to run from it too,” 

She looked up to him curiously, all the legends she had heard of the man speaking: Angron the madman, Angron the Gladiator, Angron Lord of the Red Sands, Angron sword of Nurgle, Angron More Merciless than Khorne. No where did the legend of the bloodlusting warrior have space for fear. 

“I hid from my fear by relishing in pain and despair, you on the other hand. You seem to be hiding in your data. So let me give you some data: 

The Imperium has Five full-strength Legions, all filled with warriors on par with my own World Eaters. Add to that, 4 Reserve legions and half a galaxy filled to bursting with planets guarded by countless Guardsmen and two legions worth Astartes in the millions. Even at twice our current strength we are undermanned. We will always be undermaned, and in the time it takes us to produce two thousand more drones, we will lose about 800 drones and a few World Eaters. In that same time the Imperium will regain countless billions of soldiers, and dozens of Astartes. They will grow stronger in the time it will take us to rebuild. You will ''never'' be able to outproduce them, you can only keep us going. So do your best and be prepared to lose it all.”

The creature listened intently, but Angron could tell she was not convinced. He continued.

“That was what your Queen did. In those days she was still only a captain of a single ship. We had no brood-keepers, no Anthroids, no carapace warriors. It was just us Brothers-in-arms: Saporin, me, The Gladiators, a skeleton crew of loyal Humans, and less than half of The World Eaters. We were outnumbered then too, but despite everything we have survived, even thrived." 

Angron was never very good at inspirational speeches, so maybe a bribe would be better. He knew that most of the higher level drones had a love of collecting trinkets, he reached into his pouch. "Here, perhaps it's time you start having a weapon to practice with," Angron said, producing a large glimmering adamantine knife. Zoay's eyes glimmered as she looked at the knife. It was a large serrated blade, almost a sword. The blade was nearly white when reflecting against the lamp above them. Upon the Tip it bore the 8 pointed star scratching out the sword and wings of the Blood Angels. 

"Zoay Broodkeeper of Soporin"

Trying to sound authoritative, Angron put on his best impression of Lorgar's Bombast. “The Imperium has bested you this day, you have been defeated but have managed to survive. You saved your comrades with your quick action. In the Arenas of Nuceria, to survive the death games was what separated the fodder from The Gladiator. And so as both an artificer and gladiator you will now serve your queen." 

Not seeing any shoulders, he rubbed the flat of the blade on each side of her upper neck. She quivered with excitement.

"Remember you are your Queen's spawn and your Queen's soldier. It is not enough to have her mind, As a World Eater, you must have her courage as well." 

As he finished saying these words he gave the knife handle first to the now beaming arthropod, who grabbed the knife with all four hands. 

"I am already preparing for a raid out of the Eye, I want you, and only you, to prepare a manifest of the most crucial essentials. If you or any of your scientists feel capable, they will accompany me on my next raid to one of the Forge Worlds. Perhaps some information will be there. In the meantime, have faith in Father Nurgle, be resourceful with what you have, and report to me as much info on this pollutant as you can.” 

The Brood-keeper’s legs scrambled in attention, mimicking the stiff pose of the war drones. It wasn’t very good. 

“We will just have to be more picky with our corpses. Whatever this warp-magic is, It's probably expensive, and not everyone will have it. Now, have you any further business with me?" 

The insect with piercingly bright white human eyes shook its head, and so Angron dismissed her without a word. She raced back to her chamber, hiding her prize as best she could. He continued to quickly walk up the craft to the Bridge. 


	7. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angron visits Saporin with news of the golden honey

Finally reaching the bridge he entered into a vast auditorium surrounded by stalactites, columns, and walls of massive hexagonal combs. The individual combs were too small and numerous to see, but Angron knew that residing in each comb were individual cells in which the tasks that took the Imperium dozens of systems to replicate served the War machine of their Captain in a single ship. Cells where newly acquired candidates were transformed through the blessings of Nurgle and the gene seed of Angron into Hive soldiers for Saporin or new Astartes for Angron. Others were nests where the bodies were arranged to host the larvae of new worker drones. Other cells were little agri worlds where living organisms from across the galaxy were bred for livestock. Others still mixed this rotting livestock with the rancid corpses of a thousand plundered worlds, providing the blood-red honey that fed the ship’s untold millions of crew. The cavernous hall reverberated with the echo of hundreds of workers performing their needed functions for the ship, whether it be research, repairs, or flight computations. The Buzzing of armies of winged crew-members flew from wax stalactite to wax stalactite overseeing the maintenance of the ship. 

In the center of this immense chasm was an obelisk-like structure with an organic bridge leading to it. Now a pillar, this massive monument in the center was once the command bridge of The Conqueror, placed at the center of this massive hive. The gravity generators of the room had been arranged so that those lacking flight could walk along the walls of the hull. Somewhere, under Angron's feet beneath miles of wax, hives, compost, and reconstituted metal lies the ruined stained glass windows and gargoyles of an Imperium that both were once a part of, and both had sworn to fight. Surrounding the bulkhead was the remains of the hull of The Conqueror itself. A bare porous husk that had been eaten through and built upon to create the entire complex. Angron walked on the bridge surrounded by an endless chasm as deep as the Champion was once long till he reached the captain's throne at the top of this center monument. As to be expected it was empty. 

"Saporin" the Primarch shouted, "I demand an audience!" 

Despite the vastness of the chamber, his voice made no echo, muffled by the constant low buzzing of activity that permeated the complex. 

From below the bowels of the ship, she arose – Saporin – Mistress of the World Eaters and Queen of The Conqueror of Death. The 8 foot tall figure surrounded by 6 harpoonlike pincers stood in mid-air supported by four transparent wings that beat with a rhythmic hum and a mighty gust of wind. Upon her carapace armor was a red handprint with the eight-pointed star placed inside.

"An audience you have, Angron." She responded. After noticing his lack of armor, then teased, “Strange to see you in The Aquila, do you speak as a herald of The Imperium?”

Angron ignored her prodding, “The Raid on Nuceria cost me my armor.”

"So they told me, a new suit is already being prepared. My children were just speaking of you, hoping to know when you would supply them with a bounty of sweet nectar of fallen loyalists." 

Angron replied, "Yes, one of your drones just told me,” he said gesturing vaguely behind him. “They’ll have to wait, you seem to have a problem in manufacturing." 

Walking towards her, Saporin’s proud smile began to fade and head cocked to the side in a confused expression. Angron held up the glistening, flawless, golden ichor in front of Saporin. She stared at it confusedly, then with one of her larger pincers, dropping it in front of her hand to study it herself.

"Come now, Angron, you’ve had 10,000 years to learn practical jokes, now is not the time to develop a sense of humor," saying as she opened the vial and placed a glimmering droplet on her finger. 

"I do not know what trophy you brought back from your travels, but this is..." 

Placing a drop to her lips her lampblack eyes widened with shock, almost bulging out of her face. Her lungs inhaled a scream and waves of pain and horror rippled across her normally stoic face. Angron had no idea what was in the vial, but whatever it was must have been powerful as Saporin lost control of her wings and flung herself onto the pillar. Angron raced to her side. Seizing her before she fell off the rail less cavern and, feet firmly planted in the wax, pulled her close till her head was pressed against his right side, absorbing the momentum of plunge. Previously convulsing, the pincers on her back dug into Angron, wrapping around him as though a spider with its prey. 

Were it any other man, those pincers would have left him a writhing mass, but the body of a primarch was extraordinarily resilient, and pain was once Angron’s only companion. His body would heal, and Angron accepted the embrace of both his lover and his once fellow traveller without flinching. The noise of the entire hive came to a halt, and an oppressive silence filled the air. 

Using Angron's shoulders as a support she quickly picked herself up, and clutched the vial. Her eyes were no longer human, and yet Angron could read the despair and shock written upon them. Her face, normally a deep violet was a sickly mauve, making her eyes seem somewhat darker, and the normally obscured scar on her left side looked as though it was a giant gash. She seemed to be staring at Angron’s arms, as she returned to her senses The color in her face returned and pushed away her lover, called to her drones through a few symbols, and barks into her combadge, the hive was again a buzz with activity. Four winged soldiers also flew behind Angron . 

"We must speak in private," she said to Angron, trying to find her voice. 

Having been accustomed to this, Angron did not resist as the four guards carried the massive being. They followed the Queen into the center of the wax covered pillar to a small cavern a few miles down. Angron was briefly disoriented by the gravity and light change, as they went from the bright glow of the throne room to the lightless metal interior perpendicular to the hive. The Humanoid wasp soldiers dropped Angron on the floor and departed without saying a word. 

Angron's Lymphic Node activated and he was able to see the dark room as clear as if it was day. Despite the layers of sediment and vegetation growing around the defaced statues and hollow glass he recognized the room. It was the ancient commander's bridge where the creature once known as Lotarra Sarin, flag officer of the Imperial Navy, commanded The Conqueror. This section had been a dead husk for thousands of years. Like a whale carcass, all manner of life was built upon its ruined dead husk. There had been no light for millennia, but neither needed the light to see. Saporin turned to Angron still clutching the vial. "How did this happen?" Angron, slowly moving closer to Saporin and relayed what the broodkeeper told him, "Seems the current collection of soldiers were somehow warded from Father's blessing.” 

Angron wondered if he should be ashamed about his ignorance of the inner workings of the hive, but the body language of Saporin told him this was severe. 

“I’ll admit I don’t understand your process, but something about the bodies not decaying." 

A foreign strand of panic entered her voice. “By the Dark Gods, everything could be corrupted. If this spreads…” Saporin reached once again to her comm, but Angron gently reached for her hand to push it away. 

“Your broodkeepers have the situation under control, there is no need to act on impulse.” 

She searched his face for some sort of condescension or stoic composure. There was none, only a superhuman calm, as he searched her face for signs of stress. His calm unflinching expression was infectious; She spoke again. 

"No ward has ever been strong enough to poison an entire production line, and you only gathered less than a million. We will have to drain the entire run, and rely on reserves, but that will mean our newest spawns will have to be gutted, this could corrupt everything." 

The queen stared at her old captain’s chair, now a fraction of her height, and absently walked toward it as she tried to collect her next move. Angron moved closer to her: "Lortara. what was in the vial?" 

"It was Poisoned, clean somehow.” Her face searched for an answer in the surrounding dark vessel. Angron suggested perhaps it was the work of his still loyalist brothers. Magnus, the great throne bound sorcerer could perhaps devise a protection for soldiers. Or perhaps even his fallen brother, Gulliman. Though still only a nascent god of the warp, The Three Headed Eagle’s power continues to accumulate as the untold billions of warriors from Ultramar and beyond die with his name on their lips. 

“It didn't feel like whatever Aurelian or Magnus would concoct. It felt familiar, older..." 

She refused to allow that thought to dwell, attempting to shudder a shadow from the back of her mind, her massive black eyes turned to a defaced statue. 

"It wasn’t a ward, I could feel the gifts of Nurgle dying within me." 


	8. Interlude: The Betrayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the height of the Great Treachery of Lorgar, we witness. Kharn's last battle with Angron.

I marched with my father for the last time as we boarded The Red Tear. I passed through the exquisite corridors I saw the beauty and care The Winged Primarch offered to his children. He was a beacon to them, and they honored him not only with their deaths but with their lives. And Their primarch accepted it not with ambivalence but with gratitude. Angon would masquerade now as some imitation of Sanguinius but it was hollow, he would never accept the sacrifice of his sons because he saw all our offerings as worthless. Like our sacrifice of sanity by donning The Butcher's nails, or the sacrifice of Varren. Worthless. 

Only one prize mattered to him now: his vengeance. It was not enough to claim the life of Roboute Gulliman and ravage all 500 worlds of Ultramar. It was not even enough to raze Nuceria and transform it into a habitat of unspeakable monsters. He was convinced that Sanguinius would be his great prize. Like Alpharius claimed the heart of the Emperor for Tzeentch, Angron would claim the Wings of Sanguinius for Nurgle. A trophy to claim off the beaten body of The Imperium, that he would not be denied or beaten to. The Nails may have taken his rage, but not his bitterness. 

The Blood Angels did not fight us here, we were alone. Our boots marching through The Red Tear still had the hypnotic percussive drumbeat of Ceremite boots against metallic and stone floors. A far cry from the soft organic crunch made from the waxen and earthen floors of The Conqueror. My brothers and I held our positions, The Butcher's Nails burned through my body but I had been with them for too long to allow them to control me now. I took solace in the shared misery of my brothers as they in mine. 

As we entered a large narthex of the ship I permitted myself a glance around the craft of Sanguinius, our battlefield. If I had any lingering doubts about what I must do, they were gone now. This was the hall of a true leader of men. I could not weep, but some around me muffled a scream in envy of The Blood Angels. Even if we slaughter the sons of Sanguinius, and slaughter them brutally, they die in the comfort of their beloved father. Surrounded by the memory not merely of him but fallen brothers. A soldier who dies here is not murdered, he is not put down, he is martyred. His death was witnessed by his fallen battle-brothers enshrined in Glass, pigment, cloth, and Rockcrete. I could not but think back to my brothers, Macer and his loyalists left to die amidst the ruins of Maccragge giving their last breath in mud and powdered marble as unspeakable horrors ravaged their weakened body and these accursed implants laying waste their mind. So many brothers of the Twelfth left hollow in open graves without so much as a solemn reflection. My men and I gathered broke off from the corrupted ranks to make our way into position. Some of my brothers gritted their teeth amidst this shrine of solidarity and loyalty we could never see.

The Battle began as The Blood Angels descended from the upper floors of the Narthex. Hundreds of Jumppacked warriors joined by The Angelic Figure of Sanguinius, his wings and golden armor glimmering in the light of the multi-colored light of the Narthex. The mechanical of their jetpacks was synchronized to by melodic with their battle cries “By The Blood of The Emperor!” This melody of the jump packs and bolters garbled by the Grotesque hum of Lotara's drones. Her massive insectoid sons whose humanity was lost rose from the pits of the ship to meet these Angels. A great war erupted in the sky illuminated by stained-glass windows while below the Angels and World Eaters fought with bolter and ax and chain-sword. My men and I remained in the shadows of the columns attempting to get ourselves into Angron's flank.

Angron and his warriors were slowly advancing on the Angels, blessed with Nurgle's putrid endurance. Corpses of Sanguine Astartes and wasps and demons fell from the sky crushing World Eater and Angel alike. While the war above raged on, The Red Angel descended from the battle above to confront Angron. Sanguinius fought with skill and grace, but Angron's putrid lover Lotarra and the Gladiators fought with unholy power. They didn't even bother to block but allowed the axes of Angron to penetrate their fungus and bark-covered bodies, costing Sanguinius precious seconds and strength as he had to pull his weapon from their pulpy flesh. 

This was our moment. With a cry I charged Angron, letting out these empty words. "For the Emperor, Death To Traitors!" The Axes of my companions charged against the Nucrerian Gladiators, hacking pieces of their body away until limbs began to fall off, and they were forced to flee or parry. Many more of my brothers heard and repeated the cry, "We are The Imperial Hounds, Death to The Emperor's Foes!" Turning against their corrupted brethren. Angron's army was trapped between the berserkers he created and disposed of and the Blood Angels. They struggled to regroup and were forced to retreat, losing many drones and corrupted World Eaters along their fight back to the boarding ships. Angron's perpetual rot induce smile faded for the first time since his transformation. As my axes met his, I saw rage rise in him for the first time. There was no archeotech to bring him to frothing madness, for once his rage and anger were truly his.

I remember his curse, as we drove him from the bays of the ship. He howled at us that we were dogs. 

"What have you done, Khårn! You Bastard! You Traitor! Where will you go now? Do you think you will be Imperial Hounds again? They will never treat you as a son, they will never even treat you as a soldier! They will never even treat you like a dog! 

You will never be anything to them, you are their cur. They will chain you to some forgotten miserable realm, far from anything they hold dear, and you will bare your teeth and bark at whatever beasts come near their scrap. You will have no sons, because they will castrate you. They will leave you hungry, they will leave you abandoned. And when in your weakness and infirmity you are no longer worth the scraps they feed you, they will put you down like the Mongrels you are.”

He continued to curse us, and all the while we fought him back. His rage was impotent against our combined forces. I stopped to look at the face of Lotara, no less surprised by my treachery than Angron. I could not bear the look of her face, as tears of grief and wrath marched across her face. She said only one word, “Betrayer.” It was enough.

Angron howled and roared, all the while falling back to his defiled Conqueror.

“This is your fate, Betrayer! This is the grave you have dug for my sons! You will pray for the mercy I gave to the other Hounds. You will long to join the pile of corpses above my homeworld. Your greatest failure was that you did not die with your brothers above Nuceria. For now you will die without a father, without sons, and without brothers, only the void will stand watch over your grave."

There is no mercy for traitors, and I am a traitor. Betraying a traitor does not reverse treachery, it only makes it habitual. I do not begrudge Garro for accepting his Father’s mantle. Nor do I begrudge the Companions of Macer Varen for finding brotherhood with The Ultramarines, but they are still traitors. The Loyal Sons have offered me accolades and rank. I have rejected them all, for they only taunt me. Some of my brothers have abandoned The Butcher’s Nails, joining Varren as adopted Sons of Gulliman. They are free to leave, and I hope their delusions serve them well. But for my companions and I, The Betrayers, we know Angron’s words to be true. Thus we leave both The Imperium and Chaos to their fates, in hope of finding monsters worse than ourselves, and in penitence for sins which we can never atone. Angron, Garro, Lorgar, Typhus, Perturabo, Corvus, Aximand, Alpharius, Luther: Traitors all; They may rationalize what they have done, they may bask in the comforts of their new masters, but they can not escape Angron’s curse. The fate of all Traitors is a cold grave, that only sacrifice can atone for. We will search for that atonement among the killing fields of the galaxy. Else The Void will watch over their graves will watch over ours, but it will watch over ours first.


	9. The Emperor

Angron allowed his thoughts and memories to wander, as Saporin debated her plans with the darkness. Turning to the Champion, her eyes and lips ablaze with ideas and solutions. 

"You are still human, mayhaps you petition that idiot Golden brother of yours we could acquire ward protections? The Eldar and the Imperium are in that Cold War of theirs. So long as it does not interfere with chaos, we could loan our services, perhaps even claim a croneworld for Lord Nurgle.” 

Angron snapped to attention at this. She was speaking nonsense. They had fought the Emperor for 10,000 years, and now she was discussing alliances? What was in that honey to make her speak such things? Was she not a demon of Nurgle? Angron could never hope to understand anything as bookish as demonology, he left that to Lorgar. But he understood enough from the Lorgar’s sermons that daemons were always “connected” to the will of their overlord. He would have assumed such a thought would have been unthinkable in the Court of the God of the Decay, but not only was she thinking it, she was saying it out loud. Were these thoughts common in The Gardens? What was happening in The Court of his God? 

Saporin noticed Angron’s befuddled look, and countered herself.

“Perhaps not, perhaps we can go further. We have spent too long in Segmentum Obscura anyways - Wards against our facilities shouldn't have spread very far. The Southwest is still a no man’s land with plenty of opportunity. Ork honey is never as satisfying but we could make do, maybe feast on the tau and tyranids as well. Or maybe go farther. Our allegiance is only to The Rotfather. It will only be a matter of time before The Imperium takes Cadia eventually anyways, might as well get it over with and benefit as well." 

“I do not think that is an option,” Angron interrupted her. 

"Lorgar instructed me to prepare for the next Black Crusade." 

She scoffed, but her scoff turned to a look of incredulity. The demon princes were not silent, she had heard rumors of Lorgar's plans, she just refused to believe he would be brash enough to carry it out. She searched Angron for signs of jest, a tell-tale hidden smirk or twitch of his left cheek. There were none. 

"I see," 

Her face hardened, turning away from Angron, then proclaiming in a mocking bravado. Lotarra spoke and gestured in a parody of the overwrought and ritualistic manner of a lesser demon. As though Angron was but a psyker who managed to fumble his way towards summoning a neverborn. 

_ "Very well then. Forgive a mere demon for her misgivings, Lord of The Twelfth Legion.”  _

_ “As always our forces are at your disposal oh Angron Nucerian! Mighty Lord of The World Eaters and Favored Champion of Our Lord, Nurgle, The Lord of Decay.”  _

Angron, the former slave, and eternal iconoclast, despised titles and formality. To be treated like some bloviating minor official or self-important cultist would sting Angron more than any insult could. 

_ “I am a vessel to serve the will of Those granted Rotfather's boon. My ships are at your beckon and my armies shall march with yours with the Great Heresiarch Lorgar Urizen to Glorious victory over the Fool-Emperor. Now unless you have further business, I must attend to my own affairs."  _

Angron grabbed one of her arms and pulled the distraught Hive Queen towards him. The vial fell out of her hands and hit the floor making a small chime as it rolled towards the wall. Saporin gave a defeated cry in horror as the aura of the vial seemed to infect the ancient ship. Small strands of gold began and harmonics pierced the comforting darkness. Whirs and lights flickered as if long dormant machine spirits were rousing themselves to the call of their Lord. There was no longer any pretense of control. 

“It’s him, Angron...oh by The Dark Gods, its HIM!

From the depths of her being she clutched Angron and her breaking voice cried out to her champion. 

“He's awake, and he will come for us! He knows where we are, what am I to do? We cant face him. Not again! Oh Rotfather, oh Ancient Lord, merciful Isha, Great Nurgle, against the anathema protect us...” 

The panicked cries of Lotara Saporin, broke him from his curious stare of the vial. Angron clutched her tighter, as though she would melt. Then reaching towards her chest he ripped the combadge off of her and crushed it in his grip. Saporin was a meticulous commander, and there were no doubt sensors and monitors affixed to the badge. Her drones did not need to see their Queen like this. It wasn't becoming, and it was the only time he felt he was no longer talking to the Woman he knew all those centuries ago. 

Placing her gently on the throne, he walked quickly over to the vial and placed it in his pouch. Who knows what the honey could have done if it actually touched the ship. The little Broodkeeper’s diligence and engineering skill may have saved the hive from complete destruction. Perhaps he should pay more respect to Saporin’s non-military drones. He thought to himself, as he returned to Saporin’s side. Kneeling before the figure enthroned in past torments and adorned by tears. 

"How long have we done this?” He tried to reassure her. 

“After all we have seen and done in the Rotfather's name. The worlds we conquered, the battles we lost. Both of us were there when Khårn fell weren't we? We were helpless to save him as the Black Ravens consumed his very essence, and yet you did not shed a single tear. But now, our food production is down and you weep over faulty logistics like your Perturabo." 

Angron heard a stifled laugh, and offered a silent prayer of gratitude to the forces that save him from his servitude to rage. The demonette placed her hands on the back of his head where the butcher's nails once stood. His long-healed scalp reacted to the red and black hairs of her elongated fingers. 

Angron was not left scarred or distorted like so many servants of chaos, physically he was almost the exact same as when he served on board her ship, back when she was little more than a fleet officer for a demagogue. But the feel was different, her hands felt a face that was once pulsating with a stimulated rage, and spasming nerves as his whole body once convulsed in eternal agony from The Butcher’s Nails. Now there was only the cold firmness of the vines that grew from the back of his scalp, contrasted with the steady warmth of his skin. There were no traces of pretension or condescension to him. Why was he not afraid? She wondered quietly. 

The Anathema had done far more to Angron than he had to her. Long ago the anathema had taken her life. She never had to live in the perpetual misery that was Angron’s service to The Emperor of Mankind. His supposed “father” deprived him of companionship, and friendship, of even basic dignity and hope. Angron was beaten and whipped into a rabid beast. A chained animal that could only howl at its master and mutilate those around him. And now the rebellious warrior would not be able to look forward to that. They would not kill him, for if they did his misery would end, and his soul would soar to the warp into Gardens of Nurgle and her embrace. The Anathema and those obedient spawn that delude themselves as the Emperor’s “Sons” have no doubt tallied every sin angron committed against him. They would have him repay his pound of flesh with an interest of blood: for the destruction of Ultramar, for Isstivan, for the death of Gulliman, for every raid and child and corpse brought for transformation, for every victorious battle Angron led against, and for every one of their Astartes he brought to her hive to be consumed by her hungry children. They would make him pay for every drop, and yet there was no terror in his eyes. 

Standing up, Angron grabbed her by the waist, and together they walked down a familiar path of the old ship. The storm of terror had begun to subside. The great queen of the Hive continued to speak, her head pressed against her love's shoulder. 

"It's been Millennia since we joined Lorgar's rebellion, and since that day we have seen nothing but failures, hardship, defeat. We were so full of hope then. 

And yes, I did not weep for Khårn, but I deceived myself that his death was recompense for betraying us, for rejecting Nurgle's embrace for continued service of The Anathema.” Saporin glanced at The World Eater’s pouch, the golden glow of the honey emanating from the pouch. Angron sealed the pouch, stifling the light, and returned her side, his hand resting below her wings in what was once her naval. She continued, 

“But in that Honey I tasted revelation. I felt the Emperor's growing shadow reaching into the Warp, and he is coming for all of us. We always kept hope that no matter what happens, under Father Nurgle we would be under free of his reach, but now that is gone. The Emperor’s justice looms once again in my ship, and I am no longer Soporin, Arch-Daemonette of Nurgle, I am Disgraced officer Sarrin, killed by the Emperor in my own ship.” 

They passed from the captain’s bridge to a large buttressed corridor, where steel and ceremite was made to look like stone, a cathedral dedicated to a man who insisted there were no gods. His statues and symbols between the arches defaced and desecrated with the unholy symbols of Nurgle, Soporin, and the Eight Pointed Star of Chaos Undivided. A pyrrhic act that now seemed to mock her for her former self-assurance. 

“How much more can we endure, beloved? We are attacked on all sides and even if we claw our way, battered and broken, to one victory our enemies shake off their defeat. First it was The Imperium, then it was Malal, and now even the Eldar are awakening to reclaim their Croneworlds? Each Black Crusade carries less troops as our enemies enthusiasm grows. It is no secret in the warp, Khorne and his servants have already abandoned Lorgar. I know you care not for the politics of demons,”

“I don’t”

“But there are many in The Gardens who feel we should do the same. What sort of war are we hoping to wage if The Blood God has better things to do?” 

“Lorgar is my brother, Lotara.” 

“You have many of those,” Saporin spat back, “all those damned “brothers” of yours is what dragged the galaxy into this mess.”

“Yes, but only Lorgar is worthy to be called such, he saved us, do not forget he brought you to the Plague God. He advocated on our behalf.” 

“Would you doom Nurgle and I for the sake of Lorgar? What will we do when the Eldar and their new god finally come for Isha?”

"We will fight them. Just as we would if we abandoned Lorgar, except we would be alone." 

"What happens then?" As she asked this Angron and Lotarra passed tarnished silver doors to the ancient meeting hall of The Conqueror. Above them, a root and lichen covered dome that once depicted a grandiose mosaic of The Emperor of Mankind uniting Terra. The Grandiose overbearing centerpiece of a grandiose overbearing lord, but that had long since ceased to be the most important aspect of the room. 

Angron pointed to an inconspicuous spot on the wall. 

"Do you remember what happened here? Lortarra. This was the day you saved my life. Up until this day all I had wanted. All I had lived for, was to die with my comrades. I was made for war, by the Slave Masters of Nucreria, by the Nails and by the False-Emperor so many fools called "father," and so every day I awaited my fate.” 

It had been long since she had been here, but it was not unvisited. Around this one spot were markings and sacred symbols of The Rotfather. Sacred graffiti of pious drones paying their respects to the cradle of their creator. The couple inched towards a small spot near the wall a small patch of grass and night blossoms emerged from a small spot of ceremite and tile. Illuminated by the purposefully placed candles and bioluminescent mushrooms. “But you saw something else. You died here. I saw The Emperor throw your body against this pillar because you dared to find not an asset but a brother in arms. You knew that those detestable nails were the day you stood up to The Emperor, medical reports in hand. You were stood up to a god while still only flesh and blood. I know, because I saw it was spilled over bowels of your ship. And as I held your broken body I roared in grief and anguish praying that I could die with you. But you gave me so much more. All my life I expected nothing, hoping only for a death among friends. But thanks to Father Nurgle, thanks to your influence, I could live amongst friends. It is fate that we die, but it is fortune we die twice.” 

Saporin turned away from him, looking towards the mound, allowing herself to lean on the Primarch. The breath of life, one that she had not taken for 10,000 years vibrated the small hairs on her neck. 

“We will die, beloved, but we will die together. Because that is all we have ever deserved. Let’s not pretend we were ever promised more than a grisly end. So let them come. Let the Emperor and his slaves march into the Eye of Terror, let the Eldar scheme emerge from the webway, let the Necrons awaken and the Tyrannids feed, let my brother gather the ghosts of humanity against the gates of The Old Golds, and the Ravens of Malice consume our remains. In the future there will be only inescapable darkness and endless war, but we are warriors. Endless war was all our masters ever promised us. We will fight for every day that Father Nurgle has granted us this, and should we fall, then we will fall as one, and I will die by your side and die happier than I had any right to be." 

The daemonette was silent, holding her lord, as he held his champion. They stood for an eternity in silent vigil over the space that birthed them both, holding requiem for what they once were. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this. Its taken me a while, but im glad to have finally finished this first story. If you all have any suggestions on how i should improve, or if there are more stories you would like to see in this universe let me know. I have a couple ideas brewing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to several writers, including mistrali, for taking the time to beta my writing. Greatly appreciate it!


End file.
